Categories
Philosophy Prose

Perfect Moments In Memory Glass

This is about love.

I watched this movie on Netflix called The Map of Tiny Perfect Things, and it was amazing. Hit me right in the feels. At the end, it was talking about perfect moments, and I realized that I wrote a poem about perfect moments for my middle brother’s wedding – read it during the ceremony, in fact. It’s this:

Eternal Matrimony

I don’t care that you’re running
I know you’re not running away
I don’t mind the mountains you climb
I know you’re not just with me ‘because I’m there’
I don’t mind if you look at another
I know you’re thinking of me
I don’t worry when you’re gone
I know you walk beside me
I don’t care that I may never get everything I want
You are all I need
I’m not upset by the raging river of differences between us
The stepping stones of perfect moments bring me to you
I don’t worry about your past
It brought you to me, and us to this perfect moment
And from this perfect moment to the next
Though our lips part, still we kiss
Though our hands let go, still we touch
Though our eyes close, still we see one another
Though our voices are raised, still we whisper
Of perfect moments and perfect love

In the middle of the movie somewhere, she said she’d only be friends. He wanted more. Unrequited love. And I realized that the moment before it became manifest, the love he felt – the love I feel for someone – is a perfect one. It’s like love is a baseball that can be thrown around and used to play fun games, but the minute it’s unrequited it is like a baseball signed by a World Series winning team. Sure, you worship it, cherish it, look at it from every facet, but you never touch it again, for fear of diminishing its value.

Some perfect moments need to be felt by feeling the feeling of remembering the perfect moment, rather than feeling the moment itself. I’m afraid that reliving the moment itself will eventually make that moment like any moment, one of many, a drop in the ocean, a raindrop in the sky.

A raindrop falling from the vast sky into the vast ocean.

Instead of that one raindrop that causes me and the person I love to smile and laugh and run like crazy for shelter from the storm that just started, and then watching it and listening to each drop, none of them like that first one.

Sometimes an entire person is encased in memory-glass. You can’t go back, you know. You can only remember.

Categories
Prose

William Tell Over With

A cornucopia of worldwide utopia, sending hope to both of you, betrothed to you. Caterwauling storms bring drops and clatters, stabbing through hearts into the heart of something that doesn’t even matter, and even if it did, where is it on the wind? Wind up and unwind, to bring pieces of mind to act as the stones one might use to cross the river of blues.

You can’t go back. When you do go back, it’s either a painful reminder to you of what went wrong, or it’s a rejection of what you once were, plural and singular, and you’re putting the ‘sing’ in singular.

Blood ripping through my veins, dripping out of hearts and coffee and goddamns

…you would say, in variants and versions and sequels, like war drums, because you had actually declared war against everyone. You thought everyone had battled you for so long, that you went through learning it, through experiencing it, past expecting it, and straight on to causing it. Certainty was the pillow you lay your head on, and correctness was the sheet you slept under. You had guns, and you had ammunition, but one of them was wrong, so every time you hit your target, and you always hit your target, there was a little bit of backlash – and there was always backlash.

I was never sure if I should take away your guns, or your ammunition, or stand back and bandage your wounds… but I was always sure you wanted me standing downrange with an apple on my head.

Categories
Poetry

Life, Love, And Sleeping In

Life imagines us piece by piece, creating us from raindrops and beach sand and autumn leaves. Colors, sadness and tranquility blown by the wind carve ruts in our skin, reminding us of what is missing. 


Love molds us with hands and caresses, asking us what we want, what shape we should take, how many times we should kiss, until the clouds and smoke bring us down to ground level, shaking the earth beneath our feet.

Categories
Prose

My Favorite Season Is Falling In Love

I fell and tripped and caught myself, and caught myself staring, and stared back at the past, and stared at you until you looked back, wondering why I looked so intently. Intensely, as if a car crash had become a field of flowers that I couldn’t see enough of.

You danced on the edge of my reality as the vaguely sweet smell of the season of you filled the air. I ordered you, sipped your delicious flavors, savored your scintillating aromas, drank you in, and felt your warmth. My name was on your cup, along with exactly what I wanted.

Could I have chosen more wisely? I didn’t trust myself. I hadn’t become good at the other person, only myself. I relied on you to be good at us until I could practice. You showed me a thing or two. You taught me a few tricks and tips. I shared with you everything I knew, but you were all I knew when you were around.

My watch stopped. I stopped watching for the next one and the next one. This is where I wanted to be. You were where I wanted to be. You were the scenery and the journey and the cabin on the lake. You were the fireplace and the snowflakes on my tongue. You were home.

When I was a child, I’d fall asleep here, and wake up there. It was always my favorite trick, until you came along and made my walls disappear.

Categories
Prose

Cancel Sandman

Delete the dream police. Cancel sandman. The rain will soothe and cleanse. The audience pretends.

Void the mystic doormen. Bouncers bounce at Simon’s orders. The pain will groove and shred. The audience is dead.

Smile against the fire. Token esteem wasted in the first scene. The lovers will join your fight. The audience was right.

Scream into the twilight. Sunset boulevard car crash. The others set you on fire. The audience a choir.

This shadow isn’t big enough for the both of us. You’ll have to get into mine, or be left behind. Should have stepped up. Instead you messed up. And all the string and feelings and wine and music can’t fix it.

I can unbreak this egg. Can you unswallow that bitter pill?

Categories
Poetry Prose

Light Running As Water

Written with the lovely Ms. Erotic Energy

Each of us, alone… we draw the other in. Crave the other’s attention, looking for a break in the shadows where our light can shine through.

Shadows hanging as curtains, yet powerless to contain in fullness the depth of life contained within the light. The light running as water to the place of least resistance. Always finding a way to shine forth. Curtains opening to our stage, where we perform our love story, the light now spotlight, now moonlight bathing us in its warm glow, now starlight under which our wishes come true.

Wishes long thrown to the wind to be carried to their places of rest. Awaiting the right season to be transformed by conditions which seem harsh and unseemly. A breaking of will to reveal a root, a stem. Pain of growth. Pushing upward and onward. Until finally, with time, fruition. The sweetest, most tempting fruit comes from those seeds of hardship and strife. The passing ages are sunbeams marking time, bringing rain and sustenance to the bleakest ground, filling it with life and happiness.

And so stands on the stage, two. Both basking in various arrays of light and personal enlightenment. Seeing the curtain draw back, the light emerging in its forms of glory. Hearts quicken. Lines unrehearsed. Nay, unwritten. Time holding its breath in quiet wonder. They, alone. No audience to await the opening stanzas.

Categories
Prose

Harmony In The Key Of Coffee

The soul of the asylum is the one giving out the meds. I listened to you talk for hours but I don’t remember anything you said. Your lips distracted me. My mind distracted me. The safe word is ‘continue.’

We went for coffee, but we accidentally grabbed the same cup. I let go and enjoyed myself. You held on and filled up. Shocking, I know. What was the meaning of this? What was the gist? I’d probably do it again if you really wanted it.

You asked me nicely with your wandering hands, and I couldn’t refuse in the state I was in. I thought I might be staying inside your arms, but the grass is always greener the next morning. My head hurts and I’m sleepy.

Something for this headache, something for this heartache, sometimes the cure for one is the cause of the other.

Categories
Prose

It’s Too Cold To Die

Dispense with the grainy film life, like a silent film where cards spell out everything, because life isn’t easy. When the waves crash over us both, they may pull us under and they may cast us onto the land, and there’s no way of knowing until we get out there. It’s scary and terrifying and necessary. The shards of breaking waves slice our skin and pour salt into the wounds. Pain is nothing compared to the feeling of your smile, like sunlight on my face.

This frozen wasteland is my heart. Is it preserved for the right moment, or destroyed for all time? Again, tragedies must happen for triumphs to have impact, for they are the settings in which a triumph’s jewel sits, glittering. What happened back there is a titanium platinum alloy, unbreakable and just your size, and right in the center is the jewel that is my icy heart, multifaceted and clear, the highest quality, nothing but the best for you.

How many deaths I had to die just to get it right, but it was all worth it.

Categories
Prose

It’s Never A Dead End When You Have A Machete

You say your words aren’t about me. I know that. They were never about me. They were always about you. I walked upright once that wind stopped.

I made my wishes out loud. That’s why they didn’t come true. Not because wishing out loud makes things not come true, but because you heard me and ignored me and feigned ignorance. I knew what you were doing, and I know what you did. They say exercise adds years to your life, but that’s not a math problem. Don’t get mad when the tiger escapes your circus.

You were tattooed, completely, or partially, or not at all. I can’t say you never had an effect on me. You did. But look! Those ripples are fading, and soon the stone will sink beneath the surface of the water.

The metaphor was always about water, whether the vast ocean or the rushing river, but stepping stones don’t matter anymore. I discovered I can fly. Who looks down on who is a matter of perspective, but don’t forget, Aquaman is mocked and Superman is celebrated. That’s why I look up at the sky.

I never imagined a universe where I get along better with the one I spent so much time leaving than I do with you. But here we aren’t.

You always said that happiness was transient, and it is. But so is each breath, and I’ve been breathing my whole life.

Categories
Prose

Notice

I know things happened, things were done to you, you had negative experiences. But I am not those people, those situations, those experiences. I can’t be responsible for them, or suffer for them.

I can sympathize, and I do. I can listen and be there for you. I won’t be the stand-in for those who came before me. I’m nice, and I care about you deeply, but I care about me too.

And I have my own traumas.