Eulalie

Eulalie Feb 2014

Dearest Mr. Blue
You're far away now, Love, but
My heart waits for you.

Eulalie Jan 2014

You’re not sorry,
So stop saying so.

There’s no gravity to your
Emptied apology;
I’m tired of dreaming
Psychotically,
Of ambiguity and opportunity.

This poem is a eulogy:
Sending off the desperation
Fueling me
To let go of your cold heart
That’s been just using me
To stoke the dying embers
Starved from emotional seclusion—

I’m trying so very hard not
To let myself live with the delusion
That you and me
Could ever be
Anything
Other than some LDR fling—

And those months (one through five)
Weren’t even real,
Because neither are we.
This love, was it ever alive?

At least I’m not.
After all, I’m just a thought
That you’re hoping your heart has forgot—
A figment from chaotic space
That you’re forcing yourself to eradicate,
Go ahead; take the eraser to my smiling face…

You’re not sorry,
We both know it isn’t true:

*“Cause with every ‘I love you’ I’m now getting over you”

Volatile to the maximum.

Eulalie Jan 2014

How Terrible

I listened to your latest rap, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.
How terrible it is that the only raps in which I am the muse are of broken hearts and tragedy.
How terrible it is that I think this may be more beautiful than what I had with you this time last month.
You said you were getting over me though, and
I’m struggling to grip onto reality, for my hope is blinding
me too dramatically and my heart wants so desperately
to not believe you.
I can’t afford to let you go,
not to my core,
for fear of letting my feelings harden anymore,
over this.
We’re both volatile, but what we’ve shared was
real.
You are real.
And I feel that you’d told me otherwise,
fed me some scrambling apologetic lies,
over the sake of granting each other freedom—
pseudo-altruistic *******, trust me, love, I didn’t need ‘em.
I didn’t ask that you’d set me free,
merely that you be with me;
it’s just you I need.
But I will wait, because neither of us has really said
goodbye,
and I don’t doubt that those parting words will die
before they ever reach one another, and after waiting,
I will try,
again.
But until then,
at least I’ve made you feel something.
At least you’ve made me feel something, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.

In denial? Perhaps. Hopeful? Infinitely.

Eulalie Jan 2014

Hope Over Hurt

Some days are easier than others,
Some days I forget,
Some days I’m numbed and way too ******,
Even alone,
To feel those pangs of regret.
And some days aren’t even days,
But small intervals of merciful distraction
Amongst the somber haze of blue—
It’s only but a fraction of the solace I want,
Of the love that we shared,
All the affection I gave to you—
Though I know you still care,
Since you haven’t cut me out entirely,
And neither I with you;
I’m hoping that you’re still hoping,
And I’m wishing that I can prove it—
That one day, I’ll belong to you.

Eulalie Jan 2014

My Only Sunshine

He's like sunlight
and whenever I think of him under the cover of the night
my eyes have to squint because
in my heart it gets so bright—
so much so the love's impossible to
fight
because it all feels so right
anyway,
and why fight it
when I can just ride it,
S'not like I mind it
or attempt to hide it;
the romantic in me is promptly ignited
and all the sensual candles are lighted,
forming a trail to my heart, you're guided—
I'm so madly in love that even when
I lay alone
at home
my mind always roams
to the sun rays that always'd shone
just how far up the wings from my heart—
having let myself flown—
He's like sunlight
and even at night
my room grows so bright
that I can't even sleep,
but I've no reason to weep
for I'd rather stay awake
and think of all the love there is to take
and cultivate—
His rays've kept me warm,
our love, unconditional, albeit occasionally forlorn.

I wrote this on a good day. Good days will come again.

Eulalie Jan 2014

Drowning

I’m awake—
Home alone at four in the mourning,
Sad and suffocating, seething with this broken, desperate feeling—
I’m wondering where this dying animal came from
And when it is that I might start breathing
Again—
I am in the ocean, which is beautiful,
But my working lungs lurch and bend,
I thought that my reserves of oxygen
Were safe with you, dear friend,
But you’ve gone and left me alone again…

This time for good,
So my body struggles for the surface,
Recycling used up breaths,
Never missing you, dear friend, any less,
Any less,
But mad at you for feeling like leaving,
Stealing my air, and then later feeding
Me full of impersonal pragmatics—
Stealing from my heart this rose-colored, washed out meaning
About whether you’d ever
Told me a single romantic truth—

Everything special and dear,
As I’d grown to fear,
Was over and done and your heart is no longer near
To mine.
You said it has died,
But I guess I missed the funeral.

I feel so used up and stagnant and empty.
This pain, it can’t be around;
I’m trying to swim to the surface, but
The current is shoving me down;
You left me alone in the dark and the cold and I’m afraid I’m not strong enough—
I’m afraid that I may drown.

Is this what a breakup feels like?

Eulalie Jan 2014

Wanderlust

There is something intrinsically enchanting about traveling—
Meeting small destinies,
Feeling the flow of life sweep you along—
It’s not all about running away,
Or where you end up,
Or how fast you go—
Rather, it’s about the actual act of
Moving Forward.
You sit in the car, or on the plane, or in the back of someone’s pickup, and you can see the landscape undergo its natural metamorphosis again and again
Into unique multifaceted checkpoints down the list of
Things To Experience:
People to laugh with,
Hands to hold,
Memories to make…
I look out into the alternating horizon and see
‘Opportunity’ spelled out in the clouds.
I look out and can see all the reasons why I should just
Take to the wind,
Flit and float across vast spaces of life—
Set free my spirit of all societal burden for the sake of introspective sentience and honest self-discovery—
I get the appeal;
I have tasted from the goblet that decadent ambrosia,
That flavor by which coats and balms my self-criticizing soul—
Soothing away all the hack marks,
The pocks and nicks and dents that blemish and tarnish the delicate skin protecting my psyche—
I am healed by travel,
By taking life seriously as that journey by which to merely ‘enjoy the ride’,
By making a literal journey out of life,
(Via journeying.)
Ah, even as I drive onward,
Even as I am propelled ever forward along the Devil’s Backbone, and Montezuma’s Castle, chasing the setting sun,
I am already thirsting for more

Road trippin' is so much ******* fun. Watch out world, here I come.