Separation does weird things to the body
causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
This divide-- it causes doubt
and it distorts three truths
for three lies.
It shifts a millimeter each moment
till one day, there's been an earthquake
and you no longer can tell fantasy from reality
due to the irrevocable damage.
You realize
the memories aren't really memories--
they are perceptions of events gone wrong
and this cataclysm of love allows it.
You see, the sweetness of words whispered
now have an underlining bitterness
now have a certain edge
that makes you wonder if they were ever true
And now you notice, far too early,
the warmth from their embrace
just... leaves, too quickly.
they just don't hold on like they used to.
its ever so subtle, but ever so notable,
and its enough to make you worry
about the things you see.
And finally, you both begin to see...
.... that separation
does weird things to the body.
It causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
and the realization that there's no healing
when you're miles and miles apart.

I'm sitting in the dark
Corner of my kitchen
It's late at night
And all that i hear
Is my breathing and loud mind
Annoyed with some blood  thirsty mosquito.

I'm thinking of the hard past days
Of all my used energy for others
For ensuring balance between.
****** zone you know...
**** it's so exhausting
But I'm proud...they all sleep
 
And I'm broken tonight
With my rolled tobacco
Letting myself to be weak
Hiding tears even I know
There is Noone to see it.

I love this dark corner
And the moonlight trough the window
They are my breaking point companies
My silent partners in pain.

And while I'm siting here
Pulling force from the last inches of faith
With the last smoke of rolled tobacco
I finally manage to hit that ******* mosquito.

M.T. 2016

I hate it when people ask me why instead of buying books I just read online or on the iPad or phone, as it is 'cheaper', or if I buy books, I only 'read it once' and leave it, it being 'a waste of money'.

They don't understand. People have different interests, but they... they are still similar. Art lovers, would you rather paint or draw or express your work on a canvas, or on an app, free, on a Tablet?

It isn't the same experience.

To those who obsess over movies, do you not watch a movie over and over again till you cry and weep and fall to the ground?

It's just like the first time around.

Music one of your loves? Would you feel the same love you would feel illegally downloading music for free than you would buying it off iTunes?

It doesn't feel right.

Do you love to sing or dance or play an instrument? Do you feel the same thrill as you would singing or dancing or playing piano or guitar to an app, than actually using your own voice, body or instrument?

It's not the same.

Is racing one of your hobbies? Does flinging your finger fast on an app or on a controller give you the same sense of freedom and enthusiasm that speeding down a track, cold, bitter air thrusting onto you as if it could take you away to other realms and universes?

It feel's weird.

Love sleep much? Could daydreaming give you the same escape that sleep does, could it ****** you into a world of fantasy and adventure and comedy and romance the same way sleeping and dreaming can?

It doesn't feel natural.

Is eating one of your loves? Could watching someone make some delicious, mouth-watering food on youtube give you the same happy, uplifting experience as actually baking or eating it?

It isn't the same.

Love the world? Wish you could travel? Do you enjoy looking at pictures on the internet of the many places you yearn to visit? Or do you enjoy the experience of actually visiting the so called place you desired to go to, to see the images in real life than to look at what little detail a camera off of a phone could give you.

It doesn't look right.

Enjoy education much? Love the experience of knowing things, of adding on to your knowledge. Is watching a video on youtube of the tour guide of the museum you desperately wanted go to better than actually going to the place yourself?

It isn't the same experience.

Do you even like drinking? Like the escape of reality and thrill drugs or alcohol gives you? Would you rather drink water and juice than drink ***** or do ****?

It's doesn't feel right.

Are you a stamp collector? Would you rather collect online or go to little vintage shops and actually buy the product?

Its not the same.

Love shopping much? Rather buy the product online than actually looking at the variety of clothes and notebooks and couches? Does it give you the same sense of happiness.

It doesn't feel as good.

Maybe even love cheese tasting, or kissing, hugging, talking to your family, jumping on a bouncy castle, going to playgrounds, running, swimming, going to the gym, playing basketball, tennis, soccer, squash, badminton, collecting bath bombs, playing games, going to the park, playing with your pet, actually having a pet, dolling up your house? Would you rather do all these things virtually? Or physically, as it originally was before technology came in and 'made things better'.

That's what I thought.

It isn't the same.

It may be better, or cost less, or not worry others as much, and maybe the things you enjoy doing aren't actually right to do, and maybe it's wrong, but that doesn't mean it isn't right to them.

So, don't come up to me and tell me to go to the library and borrow books just to fall in love with it then return and let go of it. Don't tell me reading online is a better option. Don't tell me that i'm just wasting money, space. Don't tell me that its just a waste.

And, for the love of God, don't tell me . . .
Don't tell me that I should just not read at all.

Don't tell me that there are betters things out there to do.

There is nothing, no better option out there for me but reading.

*It isn't the same.

they fly in
and sit on my shoulder
even when
i don't want them to

old Bob's ex-wife
had his sofa covered
in some horribly ugly
historic print

(i thought it was
kinda pretty)

i saw a haversack
made out of that
self-same fabric
in my possession

today, Bob handed me
a leather bag
he had sewed with
that fabric as the lining

i hope i smiled

because the other vision
was of his family
clearing his possessions
out of his cabin
after he passed

i'm afraid it isn't
long now

salty bitter sad those drops absorb
me
closed eyes drip
until I taste on my lips
oceans of waves
of  hurt wash
out to sea

i thought of you as my perfect half
who knows?
perhaps you still are

but there have been angry storms
and bitter seas, and tears
as salty as the ocean, and

twice as ferocious, impassioned,
they crash against the sand
amidst desperate, roaring winds:

a cold and battering rush
of all those unspoken words finally
ripping their way out as a hurricane,

and the dark clouds block out the sun,
ruining happy days to aid us as we forget
what that bright, bright warmth felt like between us.

we run to opposite ends of the beach,
duck into shelter, home alone
and aching.

i know your tourists leave bad reviews
with every fleeting visit;
i know you pin me to the wall, a poster, reading:

"would not recommend;
the main course gave me
heartburn that lasted months"

but they forgot, as did you,
of all my weather-warnings,
and the times i told you:

"it's an acquired taste;
you can say no.
i really wish you'd say no."

maybe you still are my
perfect other half
but for this period i'm torn in two.

your whirlpools have cracked my ships,
****** my loving sailors
into sure and certain suffering;

summer is over.
the leaves will fall far more gracefully than us,
and we'll see,

if by winter
we can cocoon ourselves in blankets
and grow into something beautiful as we heal.

I can’t wait to be seventy-five
and single again.
Oh, to feel alive.

I’ll come home
without washing my face
and feel the space
on my right bedside.

Ill get a dog
watch time go by
and wait around to die.

I cant wait to be seventy-five
and single again
because its hard to
remember that you're alive
until half of you is dead.

For now I'm young,
and I've not found the one I'll wed,
and I do hold a good store of years before that,
but that's just the point I'm getting at:

As we're made aware of life by death
and of sorrow made aware by bliss
love isn't made without loneliness
for both lie balanced on our breath.

It was a hope, but mostly me,
rust red and tired—
resembling the person who you’d
take the time to tell goodbye.

It was.

Now such a hope is taking shape
as that pretty sight you see
in your rearview mirror—
perhaps,
the shape of the clouds
outside of your window seat—
either way, she
dons designer shades,
a wickedly telling curve
on her lips,
and her *******—
a beacon,
held proudly to the sky.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****— car accidents, nights of overindulgence at the bar, trespassing to “not-so-skinny” skinny dip in gorges tucked away deeply between mountains. I’d imagine she’s shaken her head at me more times than she’s offered me a high five. I’d imagine I make her use less-than-flowery four letter language when I speak, loudly, without thinking first. I’d imagine she cringes when I forget to reapply sunscreen and fall asleep on the beach for three hours. I’d imagine she often questions why she got stuck with a soul that just can’t seem to settle and fit into a set groove.

I’d imagine she’s annoyed by the fact that I’m not a wholly religious person. I ask too many questions to let well enough alone. I’d imagine that she nearly has a heart attack when she taps into my thoughts when we pass a hoard of sweaty, young and rugged road construction workers on the highway. I’d imagine she’s over the moon that she’s not my mother, and that she definitely throws out some extra Hail Marys when I wake up thirty minutes late for work and somehow think I still have time to stop and get an iced chai latte.

I’d imagine that my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****, but nothing quite so challenging as the loss of a soul I loved more than any other on this planet. I’d imagine she’d rather see me with a no-good, devilish smirk on my lips than these unpredictable streams of tears down my cheeks. I’d imagine she’d hush the thousands of questions circulating inside my head that just can’t be answered. I’d also imagine that she’d agree—the inside of my brain sounds a lot like some frat boy got really drunk, made some awful beats, and proclaimed himself the master of Fruity Loops. I’d imagine she, too, would like it to cease immediately, because it’s never, ever going to sound like something that makes sense.

I’d imagine that she’s mapped out all of the cracks this has left in my heart, navigated them, and is ready and waiting with the super glue and duct tape to make me feel whole again. I’d imagine that my pain is as much her charge as my happiness, and that she tries to deflect and channel it into better things whenever she’s able.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has now gained a great friend who can share in her grief of protecting me. Someone who also has shaken his head at me countless times for a lot of the same aforementioned antics, someone who was a little too tall to offer me high-fives but offered me the low ones with a side of a hug instead. Someone who always told me to calm down before I spoke—who told me to stop overthinking things until they didn’t make sense. Someone who always reminded me to reapply my sunscreen—who always ultimately tried to deflect my pain too.

I’d imagine my guardian angels expect me to continue to keep them on their toes. I'd imagine I don’t plan to disappoint either of them in the slightest.

*Rest easy. I'll be seeing you.