it is dreary here on the port today

the cold is overwhelming, the winds cutting like a dagger through flesh.
while i cling to my coat, begging for any small reprieve,
i'm reminded of warmth from another, encountered by the ships.
it is always a wonder, when i am spoken to, as the time spent aloft is lonesome, and i've long since lost the charm of conversation.

nary one for speaking, therefore deft to hearken,
a weaved tale of pained loving anguish,
of a lover set avast on the seas,
without the faintest of thought,
of any but he, the crew, and the sea.

what a surprising thing to me, i'd admit,
as the rarity of the beauty before me,
laid plainly to see, was greater then any upon the sea,
or down within it's endless depths.

the smile there, amidst the dried lines of salted cheeks,
warmed us both through the wearying cold as we stood,
laughing at the thought of one's beauty, seen and beheld,
as opposed to the endless, mythic beauty of a sea, unseen.

These words don't come as they once did,
What once flowed like rivers,
Misery expounded onto page, ripped asunder from the mind,
And placed somewhere remote; far away.

Was I myself ever the poet, I wonder now,
Or was it simply those miserable thoughts,
Guiding the body to explain the mind away,
This is what concerns me most, now.

When before I could write, and write, and write,
About any small pain upon the weary heart,
An expression of these taut emotions, played by a coarse hand,
Not at all concerned with truth, or with what is best,
Simply expression, no matter how destructive, or deluded.

As I sit and write this now I am not fully convinced,
Even still these words are rooted in a pain,
The anxiety of the self, looking inwards,
Pondering if the space within is occupied, or vacant.

There is, a back and forth,
Between the burning desire of confession,
And the cold despair of anxiety,
That spins my mind in such dizzying circles,
Only solution being: inaction.

The strife that comes with such a choice is staunch,
Unwavering in it's indecisive nature,
Ironically enough, this feeling is reflected,
Like a mirror image, that much is quite certain.

Perhaps more frightening then this inaction itself,
With it's insidious grip on my thoughts and wishes,
Sending my worry into a fury so blinding,
The mind incapable of dwelling elsewhere,
Only solution being: longing.

Oh, the melancholy that comes from such a deep longing,
It's influence tugging not just at the heart, and the spirit,
But at the being, the pain of seeing so clearly your wants,
Unsure of how to truly take grasp of that which you love.

It is a wonders if this longing is just like that mirror,
One of the greatest wonders to cross this weary world,
Because in knowing such an intimate truth,
There then remains not a moment unfettered by anxiety.

There's no reason to try and sugarcoat my feelings,
You hurt me.

The weirdest part about it is you convinced yourself,
By just not saying anything, and keeping up a facade,
That somehow, just maybe,
It would hurt less then just ending things finite.

Instead, you kept up the dream, the idea in my mind,
With hints, here and there that maybe things were different,
Taking up space in my bed, my mind, and against my body,
Tell me truly, how could I know that your feelings were a mirage,
A mercy to my own, by your admission?

Looking back it, with how much it stings to think,
That when I awoke with your limbs,
Draped around my neck and waist,
I smiled, and nestled into your embrace,
Only to know just a while after,
That it was meaningless in intent.

In fact, what cut me so deeply,
Is your anger that I kept you there, after the fact,
Cornered you in my presence,
When the reality of it is I laid in my bed,
Believing you wanted to be there,
And the fear you'd leave at any moment.

Reflecting on it all, it's peculiar how you speak about me,
I never knew that things never clicked,
Because you held me in your arms and kissed me so deeply,
After we broke up, and we're sitting in your car,
Or when you tell me how you want to run away together,
Start anew, in a place so foreign to us.

With each moment of intimacy my hope soared,
Surely that kiss, surely that desire to leave it all behind with me,
I dreamed so desperately that the fall in responses to my calls,
Must surely be an issue of conflicting time,
But it was an issue of conflicting interest, in the end.

Maybe most of all, the most simplest of all,
When I say I love you, and you say it back,
And I tell you how much I'd love to keep you in my life,
Only for you to tell me, months after our split,
That there was nothing really there,
And that you could never love me.

That's what really hurt me.

How could you have been so foolish,
As to believe that love prevails?

How could something retain a victory,
When it exists only in your mind,
It daintily persists, so ever convincing,
That surely your fears must be an illusion.

Though, there they stay, before your very eyes,
The dismay that comes with the removal of the veil,
As the twisted husk of deceit grabs your face,
Pulling you close, your eyes glued open,
Force to glare into the visage,

Of utter despair.

Of course this is how it would go,
It always has, and why should the tale you've told so many times,
Change before your very eyes?