Somewhere between not yet and no longer.
Do you know it?
You can find me there.
Sit, please, tell me how you hurt.
Share with me all the thoughts that keep you up at night,
and indulge me in the little quirks you've mastered
to fill that space between not yet and no longer.
I have cigarettes and all the time in between.

I believe some people were born to be lonely,
and I'm believing more and more we were born to be seen,
and not understood.
But I don't want to be seen or understood.
One is too humble,
the other too grandiose.
I long for some place in between -
I long to be heard.
What an incredibly lonely place that is.

I know not how to remedy the gaps
between two opposing chemicals.
Too happy.
Too sad.
Too alone.
Too needy.
The cycle goes on and carries me from here to there,
too quickly,
or too slowly.
I just do what I'm told and take my pill.
'ONE at night'
and self medicate with caffeine and nicotine in between.

Now I smoke more than I ever have.
I don't know if I'm trying to fill a space
or **** something inside of me.
Either way it passes the time between now and finding out,
between not yet
and no longer.

My body burned
- a fire I'd never known.
The pools in my eyes
commanded me to swim,
my heart wished to lay down
beside him,
but instead I just drove.

Headlines that read
Missing Man From Mt Martha
circulated for days.

She told me he'd often spoke of running away,
and her love for him clung fiercely to the fairytale
in vain.
Perhaps we should have known better,
but the tales fooled us.
Prince Charming will save the maiden
but who is going to save him?

The floors caught me
as I collapsed under
the weight of a phone call.

They found him
in romantic slumber
among the forest -
a tree and his throat
playing tug of war
with a length of rope.
It's hard to say
who really won.

The chaple was too small
to cradle all who loved him.
Red work shirts lined the doorway
like poppies.
Friends wore top hats
embellished with ribbons
and sunflowers.
Sisters consoled their grief
in suits and coloured bow ties.
An old music teacher played a violin,
so haunting and beautiful.

I've never known grief.
Memories of his smile
and hazy nights in his car
have seen my every sunrise since.
I see him in strangers
and passers by on the street
and my heart stops
in these fleeting moments
of illusion.
Resuscitated by reality,
they're gone as quickly
as they came.

I often think I should visit his grave,
place a flower on his tombstone
or just have a conversation.
I regret that only after he'd died
I realised
we might have understood each other
better than we knew.

Contentment?
Who needs contentment.
Let's burn this fxckxng house down
so our skin swelts from the heat
and our egos can cry for our lost possessions.
Who am I without my Things?
Who is Sisyphus without his boulder?
A man now content with only himself?
Gxddxmn Absurdism.

I'm easy to fall in love with.
(I shouldn't be)
I'm not easy to love.
(My God I wish I was)

I'm the kind of lover
that will waltz the streets at 2 a.m
just to see you.
The kind of lover
that will write you poetry
from across the seas.
The kind of lover
that sheds a tear
as my fingertips graze your skin.
I'm the kind of lover
that loves fiercely.
I'm the kind of lover
that hates ferociously.

I'm the kind of lover
that will pour fuel on your jealously
to feel the heat of your love.
The kind of lover
that can turn to ice
and freeze your heart with one touch.  
The kind of lover
that at any instant
can become no lover at all.

I'm the kind of lover
you don't want to love.
I'll elate you and destroy you.
I'll give you the stars
and make you watch as they collapse.
I'll gift you roses
and watch the thorns bleed you.

I'm the kind of lover
you love to love.
I'll drive a thousand miles away
and walk back home to you.
I'll burn every poem I wrote you
and hand write every one again.
I'll push you down
and bear the sky to stand you up.
I'll destroy you and rebirth you.

I'm not easy to love,
and my God I wish I was.
One day, I know, I will be.
My psychiatrist said so.
Just you wait.
I promise,
I'm worth the wait.

My words cannot write you
the way I wish they could.
I can write about the day we met.
I can tell you about the cold Winter afternoon you met a young mother and her son in the park,
and how you endured the brisk winds for hours just to see me in the flesh.
I can describe the green plaid jacket you wore,
hoping it would keep your bones from chilling.
I know it didn't.
You're a Summer man,
and I can write about that.

I can retell our memories,
paint idyllic pictures of beach weekends.
Our skin glistening from the heat,
wind pouring through the windows of your car that's as old as you,
hoping it would keep us cool.
It didn't.
That Summer you taught my son how to love the water,
only to have the fear return threefold a year later.
I could write about that in two words: you're persistent.

My words can retell every fight we've ever had,
breathe life back into the 'he said she said' of our history.
We've apologised (mostly me)
and we've forgiven (mostly you).
With my words I've already told of your persistence.
Words are beautiful like that.
And I've birthed beauty through them,
but I've also bred sorrow.
This I know through your words,
but mostly from the things that speak louder than any combination of letters ever could.
Your expression.
Your tears.
Your silence.
Sometimes silence is too loud to bear.

I can write in vain about you,
and I do,
more often than I'll admit.
Hoping for redemption, maybe,
or justification.
Long words only convolute a story further.

But I can't write about you
the way I wish I could.
There are no words.
No words for your smile.
No words for your laugh.
No words for your quirks or your sense of humour.
No words for your flaws and imperfections.
I can write in vain about all the things that make up You,
but there's no words for love.
I'll keep trying though,
and I do.
More often than I'll admit.

Red pill.                           Blue pill.

               Both look pink
    under rose-tinted glasses