by Marc Lionhart11 Jul 2013
This time again. The time that rolls around on an inevitable loop daily. I beg of you not to draw a conclusion until you see my expression upon your arrival. I am elated, truthfully. I love you a thousand times over until it becomes my skin. Late night poetry readings are a theme I relate you to. Beautiful, yes you.
A small stud in your nose.
A smile I cannot simply forget. Why your smile, your taken smile. You said so yourself that I will take care of you.
Detrimental failure once more. I should never have been right, or wrong, or whatever this is. Whatever it feels like is a truly magnificent.
I can only love you. Love you like love was a rare gem like you. I reserve so many kisses for your smiling person. We giggle like two children. Endless conversations of light. Holding each other softly through the night.
Blue Jeans, forgiving hands holding my trembling fingers believing the shaking is a symbol of my fearful love. Losing you was the bane of my logic. Not knowing what we would later become my curse. See me again please my beautiful spirit.
A sister? No.
A lover? More.
Soul mate? Perhaps.
I take the same walk in a circuit, the one my mind takes. Sitting in the park searching for the words to write down, allowing my pen to flow. But I find myself reaching the same tired conclusion, and reliving the mistake I made of leaving you.
I cannot prove I shed numerous tears over our departure, but the evidence surely does exist within me. My connection to you has only grown stronger.
If we find each other again will we be covered in soil and scars or hold each other until the latent love emerges?
Too soon to talk to you of course, this is an exercise of my mind. The apples within the bowl grow rotten. I sit and watch them as they host a fungal colony not dissimilar to ours.
I was a myopic substance in an abandoned laboratory allowing you to vacate me, just a substance with no remorse.
The age took the walls and the doors remained unhinged, waiting for your return to the unkempt natural progression. It craves a woman’s touch to tame the apocalyptic fray. I wish it.
Woman? Goddess or tired waste? This is indeed the time to come forward to the front line and beg which ever man you are closest too for a vision of forgiveness. Are you bound by me? I will keep asking yet you will ignore the answer we both seek. A woman of few words.
A note to you, I leave it here among the bills and refusal of redemption letters. This process is just about done.
Tiredness is my enemy. It eats at me and I grow thinner.
For now, I am the paper I write upon, and this page is growing full