the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator

there was a moment in time
when death sat beside me on a park bench
and he had rested his hand on the gap between us

i,

too,

rested my hand there
and brushed my fingers against his

and for a chaste moment
i savoured the warmth of his skin
and intertwined my hand with his

but he stood up

and left

and maybe he knew,

it was for the better.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

company,
that’s what i miss.

the longer i lay here
the more i ponder the absence of
your sweet, plump cherry chapstick lips.

but it all remains unmatched
in the face of your presence.

i haven’t expressed myself to you
in a while, and in the name of
“moving on”
i continue to refrain.

and yet, it’s the lack of company that brings about the most pain.

up until a blackbird ***** it’s whimsical wings
and perches upon my windowsill.

curious as to what is the brown liquid inside of my glass flask,
it politely asks to come inside.

i welcome him into my home, all excited due to my new company.

his name is misery. and we share a glass of whiskey.

“neat.”

i tell myself whilst i’m amongst realizing my own delusional insanity
by convincing myself he’s

“new”

company.

at least now i’ve got it.

cheers, i guess.

-melancholicreator