Victims of our own romanticism, we are. All too often we are caught buying into the version of “love” that we have been fed; two halves of a whole - both incomplete without the other. But, I am not. I am whole. Complete; as is the love that I experience.

Our expectations rob us of the chance to love infinitely, wholly.

My survival is not dependent on any other, nor is my capacity to love dependent on whether that love is returned; without expectation… and I will.

Sometimes, 1 + 1 = 1.

…in that stifling, suffocating quiet of sadness, I wish. Never a wisher, but I wish… that he loved me; that he would one day love me, as much as I love him.

Then I laugh. Not at the sadness of it but at the impossibility of my dream.

He could never… No one could ever, love me as much as do him.

And I am happy.

Smug love
Malevolence and misery
I will follow you anywhere
But not there
That path is yours

I woke up not long ago, lay there in bed awhile. My head hurt. Luxuriate.
Eventually, I forced myself up, padded to the kitchen and noticed every soft swoosh of my feet on the hardwood floors, the blanket of fog that lay over the city, every glint of light fighting to enter my world and every colour on every flowering plant in the room. Setting the coffee maker, I returned to the room and sat cross-legged on my yoga mat (if only for a minute). Something was different. Something had changed.

Then I realized that in my grief, and for three months, I had forgotten how to breathe.

Today, I breathe.

My dreams have shrunken and changed with you.
You are molecular;
A study in virology.

There is a comfort in disillusionment.
In knowing that nothing that seemed to be was real.
There is a peace in knowing that the dreams, the ghosts that you chased with such fervor, are simply not there.
They never were.
There comes, in that moment of clarity, an understanding that you cannot lose what never was…

And that means something.
That you have lost nothing.

There is no comfort in knowing that it all ended with one last lie.

As a small child, I would lay awake in darkness and fear.
A crowded world of little girls, shielding their tiny bodies
with blankets from the pitch of dark and the imaginary monsters within it;
I lay awake fearing, what was then, the reality of hellfire and demon possession.
That was my greatest fear.

Oh. And tigers.

Her desire to explore her soft innocence was greater than any fear of eternal damnation ever was.
The promise of eternal hellfire seemed a small price for the sweet centre of heaven.

Crave. Indulge. Forgiveness. Nirvana.

He jerks off to your stupidity
Nothing arouses him more than
Knowing he has you fooled
Into believing that he is better than he is
He is hard for your naivety
Your ignorance of his flacid life

It’s a beautiful morning for ******* things up.
I love to see a day unfold.

Unravel. Collapse. Recover.

He is made up of a million little lies
Bound
Stitched
Woven
together by false pretenses and delusions
He is the artisan of his own falsehood
He remembers nothing and calls himself the truth
It wouldn’t suit him to believe otherwise.

******* and your lying molecules.

I am powerful.
Whether of mind, body or spirit,
I am one of the most powerful people I know.
I will it and I am.

We are all powerful beyond our own comprehension.
When we become aware of our sheer power;
our potential to change, love, create, hate, destroy,
the greatest power we hold is in the harnessing of them;
the power over oneself.

I cannot care for someone who has forgotten how.
You were so determined and you succeeded.
I told you once that I would love you until there was nothing left.
You always get what you want.
This is my stop.

Lost something that I never had.
Found something that I lost when I lost it.

I love mornings like these;
the subtle promise of the bitter cold to come,
met by the tenacity and warmth of the autumn sun.

It almost makes me want to go out and do something great…

Almost.

He
makes me wish

I were someone else.

Love is the most selfish of acts. We choose who we love, how much, how long and never without the desire to be loved more than we love. But when it is right. When the selfishness between two people is compatible, when the madness aligns, qismat.

We do not come out of it empty-handed. Bloodied and broken but not empty handed. We are all afflicted.

Object of my unyielding affection
Cause of my unceasing destruction
Beautiful bane
Blessed blight

Lamb of willing immolation
Embrace for love, my unsalvation
Surrender to pain
Cursed light

I lost him to a ***** named Madness

I’ve run out of reasons.
I haven’t the desire to justify.

False prophet.
Web of lies.
Preying, grooming, seducing and sustaining
with the delusions of your own mind.
Grooming.
Grooming.

It’s 9:00 PM where I am. Insomnia’s grip on me seems to be loosening and sleep closes in. Finally. That *******.

Every night, for the whole of three months, I lay in bed awake at night, pleading with him to let me rest. Then, suddenly… out of nowhere, my mind begins to wander; dangerously. I am a gypsy, a mystic, an architect, artist, scientist, astronomer, an angel, Satan himself and, most recently, a poet.

I haven’t written poetry since 4th grade.

My dream spirit comes. I’ve missed her.

People come in and out of our lives everyday. Whether it be the shy, pimply-faced kid behind the counter at the local coffee shop, the pretty, young girl who seems to be eternally waiting at entrance of the station for someone who will never come, or the 83 year old man who breathes and sleeps through his own musky scent of mildew and mothballs while standing up in line behind you at the grocery store - each of them with stories to tell, lives to lead and, ultimately, holding the potential to change your life; if only for that chance opportunity.

Sometimes, we return a smile, a gesture; we exchange a fateful glance (if such a thing exists). Maybe the accidental encounter ends there. Even then, we’re fortunate if we’ve made a difference in someone’s day at precisely 3:24 P.M. on a Monday afternoon. And then…. Oh, yes… and then, sometimes, what seems to be a simple matter of being in the right place, at precisely the right moment, we find, in that instant, what can be explained as nothing less than ourselves within another; someone who reflects back to you the person that you are and that you want to be, mutually and at the same time. It is at this instant, this recognition of your self in another human being, that you whisper promises to “never let this go”.

But promises were made to be broken.