i miss you most in the morning, when your side of the bed is empty, my hand reaching, expecting, feeling nothing. i roll over, the sun bright, rude in my eyes, i am sad, disappointed, i can’t love and be loved on this lazy morning. i grab your pillow, squeeze it against me, a poor substitute of you, i curl up around it, press my face into its softness, savoring your scent, the smell reminding me, wishing it was you.

love is an illusion, a mirage, ephemeral, fragile, evaporating at the slightest hint of reality, hard to find, easy to receive, difficult to accept unconditionally, in a world of romantic reverie

i am most anxious, when in love, fear falling from grace, being rejected, abandoned by yet another, reinforcing my self perception of being ugly

love is what i most i desire, the one thing i can not get, won’t allow myself, knowing the price to play, the emotional toll to pay, in the aftermath

endlessly chasing a fairy tale, one day waking up bitter, as the reality is too harsh and arduous to endure

i feel, know, that i am disposable like a paper handkerchief, used once, i will be thrown away. i am temporary, short lived, a luxury at best, never really needed, knowing there is a long list of suitors, when you tire of me

how do i trust, intertwine, taste your tears, knowing this is momentary, a study in futility, i retreat from reality, create a fantasy, a perfect world on my screen, eschew the flesh and blood in front of me

we love differently, how can we understand, connect, when we are so dissimilar. a merry-go-round of constant negotiations, asks, and rejections, physical versus emotional, i initiate, you reject, our relationship spirals down, hits the ground, and consumes itself in a fireball of hurt and hate.

we are too different, you and i, the sun and moon, how do we live, fulfill, satisfy our many, complicated needs and wants.

i see the signs, know we are doomed, yet i play the game, half-hearted, going through the motions, never letting down my guard, of becoming one with you, i no longer trust, having been wounded, hurt, betrayed too many times, bracing, protecting myself from the inevitable pain

my head is no longer in the game. i have stopped playing, removed myself from the board, i have grown tired, hoping the next one will be different, repeating the same patterns of destruction, attracting the same damaged people, I recognized the lie, love is a mirage, the cynicism all too consuming, my heart has died

I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.

I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.

“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.

Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.

As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”  

She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.  

She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.

“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should  kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”

i look out into dark, savoring the quiet, the stillness of new dawn, wondering who die today, whose life will end and whose will change forever, sending a shock of wave of pain and grief from an epicenter of a dead soldier

who will die today, whose mother wife daughter will cry today, whose father son brother will fall today

the sun has risen, reality has set in, its time to ride, its time for some to die, we roll the dice, who will land snake eyes

to sit in the humvee, knowing you are playing russian roulette, you can’t  have hope, no inkling of a dream, lose the desire, it is the only way to survive, knowing you may die, give up all hope, consider yourself dead, be grateful at the end of the day when you are not. the drive down suicide alley, like the walk up gallow’s stairs. now i know how they felt. you surrender to fate. you stop thinking, you stop feeling, you go numb.

no longer in control, my life is no longer mine to live or die

i don’t believe in You, not since i was a boy, but i pray, that if we hit an IED, that i die instantaneously. i don’t want to lay on the ground, feeling the horror of dying, crying that i want to live, screaming out for my mother like i’ve seen happen to other guys

there are things worse than death, the living hell of coming home in pieces, physically damaged, emotionally traumatized, spiritually disillusioned, which slowly erodes and destroys your life. a new war, another battle, this time at home, fought in your head. the cycle of trauma 6-9-12, addiction, depression, how long do you let yourself free fall till you hit rock bottom

i am a man, i am not suppose to be afraid, but i am, i can’t show or say, not to them, especially not to you. i am not allowed to show fear, be vulnerable, you will lose respect, stop loving me, tell me to man up, in some subtle way

when everyone has left, everything lost, when the pain is greater than the fear. you must, you will, reach out, or die in combat, killed in action, in the war fought in your mind.

I was thinking about you this morning, imagining how it would feel to your have your body pressed against mine, your sweet lips kissing mine, my hands caressing your naked back...

tes beaux yeux bleu me rappelle du ciel
tes lèvres rouge son comme une rose en printemps

your beautiful blue eyes remind me of heaven
your red lips are like rose in the springtime