whimsically not there.

Letting go, dreaming slow.  My muse used to bring me words, now I can’t face this empty screen.  We can write when we’re happy, but no one really wants literature that doesn’t bleed.  Isn’t that the truth?

I’m trying to document this pain so that later I’m not fooled by my own faux feelings.  I’m looking for my reflection in him and it will never be.  Don’t we al deserve a reflection of our own heart? I know I’ve been dying for it.  How many years have I been dating? I’m letting go because I have to, and I’ve never had to before.  It was always whimsically there if I REALLY wanted it.  It could have been salvaged, fought for.  But no, not this time.  There is no changing minds, hearts rather.  I can’t keep shaking him and asking why why why? 

Have I not learned anything from religion in all these years?  I’m as tragic at love as I was at religion.  Failing to understand, refusing to let go.  And I’ll probably change my mind at least a few more times.  How does a writer ever let go?  There’s that constant belief that the world you’re looking for is within reach.  I write only what I know, not fantasy.  So why is the fantasy all in my head? Too scared to see it in print because I know it can’t and won’t ever be.  

The winner takes it all.

And so the games continue… with my heart as the ping-pong ball.  How can someone expect so much more than they’re willing to give?  But I play along, knowing that I finally feel like I have a bit of the upper hand.  This is always momentary.  Just like a gamble, you can be on top for a moment and fall on your face the next.

I don’t want to play.

I want it to be real.  I thought we were past this.  Why does he feel the need to carry on trite conversation with me? It’s a waste of my time.  Maybe I sound harsh but what’s the point of all this?  At the end of the day he’s still the power player no matter how many rounds I may have won.  I’m being strung along just enough.  He has to know this part of the game.

In the end, he takes it all because I spend my evenings waiting on him, pouring my heart into yet another project for him.  Just another way for me to win his devotions.  Yes I did admit to still playing…  I even dance around the idea of a note.  He doesn’t deserve me.  I don’t think he ever will, but as long as I'm a willing participant in this pursuit I’m just as bad as the player, the dealer, and succinctly, the winner.

The first song I've ever written.

Soaked up in you

 How long do you think this moment will last?

Slipping away from me

 I can’t even enjoy my joy. 

I know it will be gone and all I’ll have left is the sting of this memory. 

Will I even want to remember it? 

Is this what I’ve been waiting for?

This moment. 

How can I grab onto something fighting me every second of the way?

Every second of the day? 

I can’t, so please grab onto me, 

before you slip too far away.

Everything deserved is in front of you,

you don’t need the abuse you give. 

So take the good,

take the light,

and stop this internal fight.

How can I grab onto something fighting me every second of the way?

Every second of the day? 

I can’t, so please grab onto me, 

before you slip too far away.

Waiting for your realization could be too long and too wet.

I’m supposed to dry up and I can’t. 

All I do is imagine that there will be a million other moments just like this,

but I know youre slipping away. 

Do you call it slipping when you’re really just backing away?

How can I grab onto something fighting me every second of the way?

Every second of the day? 

I can’t, so please grab onto me, 

before you slip too far away.

So damaged and so textured. 

Do we always draw near to our biggest fears?

Am I facing my fear….in you?

Love that’s bending me beyond return. 

Disconfigured, I’ll be, trash to the rest. 

Is that what you want?

Someone wrapped perfectly around you, yet so easily removable?

How can I grab onto something fighting me every second of the way?

Every second of the day? 

I can’t, so please grab onto me, 

before you slip too far away.

Grab on to me, because my vines will break. 

Not out of chioice.

The vultures are back to take what’s left. 

Picking away. 

Don’t come back here, I cant take it.

The darkness pulls you in

Draws you in

Like a phantom

Like a ghost

Pure intrigue will take over from here

Is that what it was all along?

Sometimes love and lusts are obsolete