I realize now
as I read your words dancing with the light of the screen,


                        I don't love you.


I wanted to be in love.
People seemed happy
when they are in love.

I wanted to be happy.
And being in love seemed
to take all the loneliness away.

It was then I remembered
the feeling buried with
forgotten memories.


                            I liked you.


And then I wanted to love you,
to love every inch
and every detail about you.



                            "I love you."

        

But I wasn't happy.
I wanted to be happy.
I thought if I loved you I would be happy.



                          "I loved you."
      


                                               I wasn't happy.
                                            I didn't love you.
                I was merely caught up with the
                                    idea of being in love,
                           of  being in love with you.

Words tumble like broken glass from my mouth
Shards cutting my tongue and crunching between teeth
Disjointed.

A demon claws at my chest, another stealing my breath
And I wish I would slip away but I'm all too aware
Hurting.

What will it take to quiet the screams
Ringing in my ears, catching in my throat
Silently.

real sadness
doesn’t howl
or scream

it sits inside
your chest                
weeping softly

not wanting
to disturb
the exuberant air
around them

Swinging to and fro;
A delicate dance—
Locked in rhythmic patterns;
And asynchronous chaos

Entropy of the mind—
An internalized butterfly effect
In perpetual motion;
Perpetual motion sickness

Maddening to say the least
Is our dance of life—
Hand in hand with death;
Walking the line forevermore

It's a dance none can see—
A tango of the mind;
Our personal recital of life and death
Our swan song

Swaying to the symphony—
In familiar patterns in our minds;
Arrhythmic chaos external
Cessation within

A manifestation of grief—
A life lost; taken; nay, stolen
Patterns invisible
Swinging in the maelstrom of life

Isolation is what sealed my fate.

Eating bread and dripping
and reading 'ripping yarns'
life was that and so much more
back in nineteen sixty-four,

A coal fire had me sitting
watching mother knitting
dad was doing some ironing
a man ahead of his time.

Frank Finlay had me blushing,
blood rushing
I won't say where,
but I was eight, too young to know
and too early for me to care.