Eulalie

Eulalie Nov 2013

Selfish

The power went out in my house for the first time tonight.
It took only but a moment for everything to run loose from my hold and to leave me empty handed and
sightless.
It was as sudden and unpleasantly startling as the moment I realized I’d
fallen in love with you
and now these vaulted ceilings and smart, leather couches have fallen
victim
to the same darkness that shrouds my breaking heart.
I think you’re really selfish.
But so am I,
and as I hide in the blackness with the amber haze of
candlelight
casting those flickering shadows of
twisted, dancing demons on the walls I am hearing their exaggerated whispers hastening me to resent you for it.
They intoxicate my head about how you’re probably being
more selfish than me.
For god sakes you sent me a short story
laden and sodden and dripping
with all of these beautiful similes and thoughts and they were
horrible.
Not only were they not written for me, but for some
replacement muse
who has beautiful green eyes (are not mine, any longer?) and a beautiful smile (have I stopped grinning at you? I wonder now how it is I lost your love.)
that conquered your heart and blasted past my deafening, mundane
inadequacy.
You say you love me
You say you wish you’d say it more
You say you love me so much.
But the demons scoff at you—they’re telling me you’re lying.
O the lies! Liar! Clever devil, that one! Don’t believe those sweet things! they admonish with a brutality that entices me to scream out loud at you,
to shout and yell and kick and scream out loud because
how dare you do this to me?
Why love me at all
When your muse beckons with her beautiful, superior, faultlessness and tempts and tantalizes and
replaces me?
You say you love me so much.
And I, you, Darling.
But it’s too dark in my house and it’s too dark in my head and it’s too dark in my heart
And you have a new muse.

I'm going to try to move on. Slowly but surely. This was such a fleeting splendor.

Eulalie Nov 2013

With Him

Leave it to him to go and uproot the gradually established
foundation,
with a mere declaration of inclination, (ah, these new sensations)
that was everything I thought I knew about *** and my anticipated participation in it.
I was confident and comfortable, I admit it,
to settling warm and boring in the list of 'never been *****'.
Never adorning to the glory of the morning
after
where pillows and sheets are shared
with spoonings and sweet nothings and laughter, and oh, how I
care
to finally share with him places inside myself I've never dared
let come to light before—this sensation entirely new and rare
and candidly honest.
To be fair, it isn't easy for me to express, and oh how I would
attest
to the best way to attain truth and satisfaction, for it's a rickety bridge to cross when I've claimed
I can't experience ****** attraction.
But my darling whatever it is you've awakened demands I take action
because I am listening to the hum of desire
and with it feel the roasting of my ***** in that brand new fire
like the Renaissance and a brightening sky at dawn.
It's withdrawn, but symbolic and poised, like the flight of a dove.
After all, isn't there a reason they call it
Making Love?
All other romantic pursuits forgone,
You’ve thus far managed to do the unthinkable; you turn me on
and I can feel the lust searing from the inside,
out,
while I'm hearing your revering and circumstance prevents me to
doubt
that this hedonistic dream I'm fearing has been nearing me
in an ambush that began with September thirteen—
an exciting, hazardous route
down a path of love and a cornucopia of potential yet to be seen.
I love you not as a passing season or a fleeting
whim;
I love you terribly and without practical reason;
your name glued to my heart with toxic adhesion; a world without you now proves pretty
dim
And the *** part—

Life is intimate and if I'm going to be, too, it'll be with him.

Trying to convince you how honest I've really been, my Darling.

Eulalie Nov 2013

From You

Something I read of you tonight,
Some sweet tapestry of gentle words interwoven with my name,
Resonated particularly deliberate and intentional in the
Hollow beneath my chest and
Something tells me that you can read my mind as easily as
I can fall in love with yours.
I’m sorry if you felt my own detachment
(About time! That was my intention, Love)
And I’m sorry if it hurt you
But to be able to read or hear or feel the simple declaration: “I care”
To me
From you
Is all I’ve ever asked for.
I am crying now, only casually, because I found the messages
In your poem and it is as if all the reservations I experience
In distant moments of doubt and uncertainty are unfairly
(Conveniently, though, for the sake of both of our souls)
Washed away at the last possible minute and romance is revived anew.
You’ve no possible inkling as to what tonight’s professions have done for me
All over again.
Or perhaps you do, as I suspect.
I needed those words, for I was running out of remarkable gifts
To take with me to bed at the end of the night,
And those words have set me for at least the upcoming week
With a comfort I’ve no name for.
I’m telling you right now, Darling,
I pray the muses of Cupid from the heavens
Constantly sing to you
The soreness in my heart from all these secrets I’ve been bottling.
I pray they buzz around your head and
At the edge of your dreams so that you wake up with a want
To find your way into my heart again.
I love you infinitely and irrevocably and ceaselessly—
My sentiments have become tangible and definite and irreversible because of
Something I read of you tonight.

Either you troll these poems or you're clairvoyant. Either way, you made me a happy lover tonight.

Eulalie Oct 2013

That Song

How is it
that I all too frequently find myself
poring over contemplations and fantasies to conjure my passion for you into writing,
that I have an entire section of poems, memoirs, and undelivered letters addressed
to you, for you, of you,
that I hurl myself into the vast, ever-encompassing depth of my loyal infatuation in the name of upholding and preserving
that special love
we discovered inside one another,
that I would gladly spend another nine (plus) hours hiding in my room if it meant I could reserve exclusively that time for you,
and you haven't even written that song for me like you promised?
The haikus are nice, my lovely,
but all too brief and it isn't even like you spend much time on those measly seventeen syllables of cheese anyway;
you don't make me feel significant enough and I'm just
pining quietly for you
while standing in the shadow casted by my affectionate regards of who you are and who I wish I could
dedicate my life to.
I may be just being too bold, too brash, too needy... But it isn't like I haven't tried to distract myself
from this eager, burning drive
to spend every conscious (or otherwise) moment wishing myself to be transported into the safe house that is your arms and chest and heartbeat...
I try.
Still, as I write to you, I am trying.
But my heart forbids I forget lest it tries to rip itself up again, and I'm not strong enough to call its masochistic, suicidal bluff.
All of this fluffed and heart-shaped confetti,
all of this gift-wrapped, glittery dedication,
all of this sugar-coated and caramel-dipped sentiment...
All of this, all of this, all of this,
and still
You haven't even written that song for me like you promised.

You don't deserve the pedestal I set you on. Not right now, anyway.

Eulalie Oct 2013

Waging War

Love is said to be a battlefield,
And if that is so,

We have found ourselves at a stalemate, Darling.

I'm going to wait for you to talk to me, first. I won't cave this time. I just can't afford to.

Eulalie Oct 2013

Bedtime: Haiku Exchange

Her:
My nights are starless
And the moon isn't as bright
Unless I've got you

Him:
It kills me to leave
But the moon always returns
Never doubt our love

I wrote this and you wrote that and yours is so beautifully apt and you're just very very impressive.

Eulalie Oct 2013

A Scary Predicament

The swings of my mood over you are far more interchangeable than I'd ever care to let you know.
I let myself believe that I'd fallen out of love with you, once,
and ******* that was a brutal ten hours that I'll never be able to take back
because now that I let my head entertain itself with the idea that you may very well break my heart
one day,
my first instinct is to blink back the tears and guard
the poor, pathetic, helpless weakling that is my
truest self--
to guard that infantile child behind
a titanium wall of stoicism;
metallic sleeves shielding the heart draped beneath them as they shine with the cool, pragmatic demeanor of a straight-faced soldier staring into the gaping pit of obscurity
because love is, granted, a magical concept,
but it simultaneously happens to equivocate to something perfectly horrifying,
and the frailty of my withering heart is, day-in and day-out, under constant scrutiny,
for I would rather not
have to mend
the torn up pieces left behind by your indifference.
Loving you scares me more than I'd ever care to let you know.

Yeah, yeah, this one's about a boy, too. But too much has happened with my heart and I have so much to express. I am sorry.