Falling

I'm definitely one to rant --why else would I have a damn blog?!
   but honestly for the last couple of months I have been so fearful of what I am going to say.
As if there is some force outside of myself that is warning me to let it go --don't fret about that poem I so desperately want to get down...or the short story I shall never finish.
  It's telling me to slow down and don't be scared that I will run out of words if I don't.
You think it's funny that I actually used to think that?
Really knew in my heart that if I didn't pen every single thought in my brain that I wouldn't be able to keep it.
  I'm finding the opposite is true.
Seems the more I write --the things I want to forget are forever engraved.
  All the iotas I long to remember;  by the wayside for reasons unknown.
I guess I was the one who fell.
  Who forgot to get back up.

I feel like this space is a stranger to me now.  As if the more time I get on my hands; the more I am prone to jump from venue to venue.  I just crave that nuance I get from having something different.  It doesn't happen very often or as greatly as it has happened with writing --yet it never seems to be enough. 
Honestly if I had to pinpoint exactly where my time has been going it has been to the luxury of longhand; which has been no picnic for me either.  But I feel if you don't talk to the paper often enough all this typing becomes some sort of shortened version of the truth.
I don't want that with my words --especially because it is so very easy for me to get caught up inside of a lie. 
I'm going to work on this...come up with something crazy to blog about.
Just you watch.

My Father

I'm supposed to be writing a short story of my father
   the man I never knew --the elusive detail of my life that I can equate all failures and hiccups.
   All the unexplained garbage that falls from me in the most depressive of ways and churns out a hopeless romantic rant. 
I have very little facts of him --just stories; and I kept telling myself for years that I was going to get to the bottom of it while my family was still somewhat in tack.  I was going to probe everyone with questions and really form a solid picture of this man I never met.
  But it all seemed to fail --miserably; like everything else.  My pessimism got the better of me and still I stare at half written notes and tangents unfinished but saved in my Word.
  I just realized that I was building another wall --another reason to not get what I wanted done.  Maybe that's a trait of my father's. Maybe he was like this; just floating about life "sans wit and without fortitude".  Maybe he was a poet in his own rite.  Maybe all these stories I keep collecting were his trademark and not his soul.
  Perhaps he pushed the ones he loved most furthest away and never got around to telling them he loved them.  Maybe the only woman he loved was my mother.
  Either way...I'll never know.  Not unless I change too; unlike Him...before it was too late.

:On Mirages & Actuality

You get a heartache in most cases –but this one was different.  I felt her entire body take over my mind.  My chest no longer racing against the clock; rather heaving up and down in time with hers.  I felt my hands stiffen in quiet wait –as if to beckon her to change.  She was no longer my figment.  My peace of mind; she had become my same.  We were connected at the waist in so many ways.  I felt her shudders in the deep of the night.  I knew the moon had looked the same for us both –but how we were so far apart.

 Even to this moment –this very typing and striking away at letters that do not fit my mold; I see her.  Cuddled up against the cold of a pillow…in the heat of the night.  I can see pass the glare and the car lights that play with my ceiling.  All now I look for is the tiny cove in her back.  The subtle curve from her nose to her upper lip.  I was captivated by the thought that she could be here too.  Yet I knew; even if my mind had lost itself and only my desires could take form.

That my truth was still better now than it has ever been.  I was seeking and had found.  Taking in all the scenery of a beauty so fine.  Grounded down to the basics.  The quaint getaway I grew to love in her wake. So here we are I said to her.  And she did not move an inch.  I cried that night –more than ever before.  And I knew when I woke.  She’d be no more.

: A Love Story

I close my eyes, not to shut out the image of her but to preserve it.  I must lock it deep within myself as to never forget that this is what I own, a part of something bigger, of love.  I have honestly let this exact touch slip my mind.  Yes, it has been every day that I have thought of our bodies and the motions of our flesh creating a symphony of waves, but the thought is nothing compared.  To hold her hand now is like to never hold it again.  My skin retreats inside of itself and lets my actual nerves surface as to get the full on effect.  My body knows that this rare favor might in fact be far and few in between, so it lashes my moans onward and permits every sense I own to strengthen double over.  To hold her now, as I do recall that I have before, is like the very first time and my mind is etching every single tiny detail against something more than just my memory, which seems to be my entire existence.  I feel her lips swipe across the air in front of mine and know that if I do not experience this sensation again, I will die from lack thereof.  I have my own heart, but she is the beat.  I have my own eyes, but she is the blink.  Without her my life would be impossible; so I close my eyes to preserve this.  To never forget and always remember that this is who I am.

Her voice travels beneath my own heavy breath and I call her name.  “Sacha, Sacha.  Love me now.  Leave me never again.”  Without the utter passion I attach to them, each sentence would be incomplete.  They are merely fragments that would amount to nothing without the earnest serenity of my voice.  “Sacha, Sacha.”

“I am here.”  Her words escape themselves.  They fold over and over unto each letter consisted within, until they are nothing more than air.  “I am here,” she says again but this time more appropriately curt.  She wants me to know.  She wants me to understand that her body is all she can give.  For her to be anything more than here would leave her own sense abolished.

I become lost in the thought.  I think back to before, when we used to lie in bed together.  “Come here.”  I’d say it so softly that it never really occurred to me that I expected a real response.  She would always be two inches away, well within my grasp. “I am here,” she would explain, annoyed by my exaggerated encroachment. “You know what I mean” would be all I could say, because I would want so much more from her than just time and touch, I would and still want all that entails her.

Sacha’s fingers scrap the back of my head with a gentle tug that pulls me back to reality.  I can see her but not in the way I want.  With the lights off and only the music floating around with our moans, it is a task to make out the face I have memorized.  Our bodies are cloaked in the dark glow of a room absent of light but not quite surrounded by full nightfall.  I still cannot believe she is near me…touching me nonetheless.  It is like a thousand of my dreams are being played back to back to form an all out mirage of an event.  I miss her so.  To hold and kiss and love her now unlike I have ever been able to express before is leaving my eyes cloudy and showing the room to be darker than I imagined.

I roll back and forth on top of her, a position she has grown accustomed to and obviously has not forgotten.  She misses it just as much as I and the pleasures bounding us to commit such love-filled lustful acts are rising slightly and surely.  I can see her face clinch.  She gapes her mouth open in an unfashionable, unladylike manner that turns me on and makes me rock faster.  She’s grabbing at my hips, controlling only the image in her head and not my actual body; and then she is finished just as quickly as it all began. I bob my thighs in hopes to begin again like a frantic child atop one of those machine horses in front of grocery stores.  I have run out of coins and no matter what my own wild movements consist of, she will not begin again.  We toss around for a few more minutes; just enough for me to cum, but that is it.  And it is all over.  All of it.

The next morning is the worst morning in my life.  I wake to the sound of shuffling feet through the hallway, and I know they are not Sacha’s.  She left the night before…while I was asleep, dreaming about how I was going to cook her eggs the next morning.  I heard her moseying around the bedroom, kicking through discarded clothes, surely looking for her bra.  But I was hopeful, thought maybe she was just getting dressed to go to the bathroom.  She never flushed the toilet or reopened my bedroom door.  All the while, I dreamt, my mind remaking love to her with my eyes closed and her departure playing in the background as my soundtrack.

“Are you awake in there?”  It is my mother.  She must have let herself in with the spare key I gave her a couple of months ago.  My apartment is less than ten blocks from the hospital she works for; so I told her to make it as if it were her own.  Sometimes she’ll come over between double shifts to shower and grab something to eat; but more than anything she likes to stop by and catch a morning detective show she became addicted to years before.  Ever since my brother and I moved out she tells me there is no use for cable television.

Her head peers in, I am naked still.  “Come on, it’s about to start in a few.”  I look over at the adjacent pillow, no Sacha.  I wave my mother away so I can get dress.  Honestly, I just want to cry myself back to sleep; maybe the night before was a dream and I can pick back up where my mind left off.  I reconsider and instead don a pair of hospital scrubs that I never seem to run out of.  I walk down the cold hallway and find my mother nearly passed out on the couch, the TV blinking and the volume low.  I give her a blanket and decide to make her three scrambled eggs instead…after all she is the only woman that I will always have.

:On Time

  The greatest mystery has got to be time.  I should know; I've invested a lot of it trying to come to terms with the concept.  I suppose I don't actually want to get too technical with all of this because right now I feel weighed down and lifted free at the same time.  I've lost a lot of it inside of my own mind...time I mean.  It appears as if I haven't even found out where it went all those years ago.  But now here I am referring back to my life in the essence of what is to be my prime. 
  Am I going to be the one who reminisces on high school propaganda --who dismisses the responsibilities one must endure just in the respect of time?  I sure hope not.  I wanted to be one step ahead of the curve --but I'm not sure I am ready to let it fly by that fast.  That's what they say right? While You're Having Fun....well I do not want mine to deplete that way.  I can't even stand the thought of it.
  I feel I have chosen what to waste and what to contemplate --but never have I taken this piece of life, we all refer to in increments of time, for granted.  I most definitely relish in the fact that I am able to be of like mind and body ---that I have not been as damaged as I should've been.  That over time --even though things present themselves as little iotas of who you became as of yet --I am a complete soul.  Reaching out to the cosmos for love and scarificing all the terrors of my mind for the joys in my heart. 
  Whether this thing called time will be better to me...I don't know?  But it sure hasn't been not good.  Still thinking back though --these are my memories; this is my world.





current song: Bjork - One Day
current mood: Lifted Free

:On The Tip [Swung]

So I guess I had to address it some day --I mean why not right off the bat?
  Look at me; coming back to my drafts like old pictures in a pile of new ones.
      It's like I love shuffling through all my mess; and I never have the pleasure much like I do when I'm completely revolving around the world of the unknown...right on the tip of it.
  Don't call it odd; because I'm sure there are plenty as I type...ranting off in their own minds about the wilds of not only the misfortune of childhood but the splendor all the same.
  I suppose I like that about finding solace in my flaws --I can remember to a time that once was; and resolve that change is possible.  If once it may in fact happen again...and it will.  So I keep telling myself as long as you rock steady...sway as the wind does push and pull you; there is no way you can ever fall of the edge of the tip.