Tag Archives: romance

.

They are the two most relatable and utterly contagious human afflictions: love and hatred. And passion is the the most ironic impetus behind both, which quite often causes these two emotions to be synonymous. It’s why we keep coming back to the ones that hurt us the most. Its criminals always return to the scene of the crime. Why the feeder rat runs over to sniff the snake.
I woke up outside and searched desperately in hopes that last night was a dream. But, scratches, bruises, bite marks…..These are all binding contracts that can not be refuted. I caught a glimpse of myself in an old dirty mirror and noticed my eyes resembled an old, worn photograph from the 1800s. The meloncholly it brought numbed me a little, just enough to go back to sleep for another hour or so. The animals sleep outside…..

She keeps me here because the thinks I’m good for her. As if i am the one that’s gonna save her, and that makes me the worst type of hero. The ones that lead you out to the fires under the guise of an innocent and loyal companion who doesn’t know better. I am the canine that destroys all her favorite things and she keeps letting sleep in her bed because I am warm at night. I am the wolf she mistakes for her shepard. And that alone must be enough because there’s nothing else. No comfort, No compassion. Just bent fences and torn dresses. Picked locks and talking our way out of handcuffs. Hours later, applying them myself.
Hours later talking myself into leaving.
Hours later waking up outside.
We are all the most terrible when we are alone. We are all the most unforgivable when the doors are locked. Ive seen it all and talked them into most of it. Because I’m terribly afraid to admit that love and hatred are the same thing. It’s why I choke her when I kiss her. Comfort is the warm room where the greatest obscenities occur. It’s the parasite in my chest and the dreams tearing me limb from limb at night. It’s why I refuse to take you home, because I still haven’t found one. It’s why i sleep outside with the other animals.

Standard

.

I knew she was alive and breathing all along. Theres been so many nights when the city dove into complete silence, and I could remember hearing the sound of her chest heaving. So charmingly distinguished from the terrible moan of a million other things that were lost to this sluggish, repetitive town. A place that’s certainly inept towards any type of sensitivity of the human spirit. Most of the year I’m susceptible to a certain diminishment of my vitality. But I knew she was there…  

She is Serendipity and I’ve leared to tell her apart from all other enertias – gravity pales in her comparison to her draw. Even her very likliness can lift the skies and force an entire ocean through the keyhole of my bedroom door.

I awake to pleasant shivers as she traces my cheekbone with the tip of her finger each morning. The way the sun from the window across the room silhouettes her body is more irresistible than any piece of lace she could possibly be draped in.

If only I could translate in succinct verse all of the things she’s showed me. The sophistication of a quiet winter evening sitting alone under the quivering leaves of an old oak. I collected a million different shades of blue and green from her eyes and I would use these fascinating hues to paint my own grayed world for weeks at a time.   I feel the air pass through our twisted limbs with complex softness. Like a crazed feline – too curious to just let each us be and yet much too empathetic to destroy us.  Slowly, her gentle breath on my shoulder begins to distinguish me apart from all the pitiful bodies lining trite American homes and interstates.

When we walk down rainy avenues, I hold her hand like a child holds onto a small balloon. My reaction to feeling that she was much lighter than air and if I should ever loosen my grip, she might drift away into the clouds above and her eyes would color the darkened atmosphere with those intricate blues and greens. So I took small pieces of string and began to sew small pieces of my own life to her, to keep from dancing away into the air – So that my world could retain these wonderful new tones. Past memories and dusty old literature from my bookshelf were sewn to her along with a few love letters written from foxhole of a uselessly romantic young man. Pieces of me strung to her soft skin, to keep her from dismantling in the wind like a dandelion. So that, should she ever get carried away, she would take me along for the ride.

Standard

.

I don’t remember the drive,  but I remember the feeling of being driven somewhere.

I dont remember looking out across the river, but I remember her smashing my head against the rocks.

I remember being dragged towards the black water.

And I remember waking up with her arms wrapped around my waist. My dried blood strategically burried underneath her fingernails.
Crying and apologizing.
Not for what happened, but sorry that she couldn’t finish.
And I spattered an apology through my torn lips as well.
For the latter.

Fuck you, (name removed)
Now I have to start all over.

What a tedious task it is to find such women that lack just the right amount of chemical compounds in their pretty little minds.

Because any less of a lover would be much too unimpressive, and not as horribly alluring.  And anything beyond this type of psychosis would be too far gone.

What a strange burden is it when you have the unfortunate capacity to intelectualize such a thing.
But I truely find it hard to conceive a more passionate type of rapture than to fall victim to one another’s relentless talons. The same ones that retract and bring you great warmth you by day, rip you limb from limb at night.

These are the singular types of encounters that could only happen once in a lifetime since, through their insufferable dismantling, either one of us dies, or all essential pieces needed to ever properly comprehend such endeavors again die along with it.

And then we are too far gone.

But tonight we both know exactly what it is we’re doing.

She arrives at 7p.m.
And I know she brings a knife.

…and my mouth waters.

Standard

.

The best of our days consisted of me watching her take drugs and staring off like she was a wolf that heard a small creature off in the distance.  She waits to piece together it’s location for the hunt, but it never shows any promise. At times I feel like she could quit the chemicals if she wanted but it’s that promise of a good hunt she can’t seem to shake for the life of her. The problem here is that she will never realize that she is the one being hunted.
The sun pulls itself up over the horizon, back from the end of the world, and I hold onto her like a small child holds a red balloon. But the drugs were wild gusts of wind and on certain days, I felt as if I’d “accidentally” let go of her string. It grows tiresome and I am not such a small child anymore.  I guess you could say that was my addiction: my inner child had passed long ago and following on her little “hunts” made me feel as if I was visiting it’s grave site. Filling her needles for her was as if I was giving it flowers and holding her hand while she nods off was like a little prayer uttered.

It’s crazy how my body and mind simply refuse to work together. Sometimes she repulsed me and I only loved her with my mind. Like the way she took the breath right out of my chest the day I saw her standing so awkwardly in the bookstore seeking out a novel she had been talking about for weeks. It was the strangest thing and I couldn’t fathom how her body could even naturally assemble like that. Her legs were crossed and she stood on her toes with her back arched and twisted. Her arms were straight in front of her but clasped inside out and tangled. Like an ancient statue with a million small pieces knocked out, barely holding itself together. Like any day now she would crumble into dust and thousands of years of history would dissolve into a pile of dust. How funny the mind works that I could fall so hopelessly for a mere stance.

Other days, I loved her with only my body and I felt nothing more. It would remain that way for weeks until I caught another glimpse of something that made me come to my senses. She was a helpless old toy and the memories of my youth threw her around as if I had never grown. She couldn’t stray very far.

But I made up my mind one night while we headed back over the bridge towards her place. The passenger seat was pushed back and she was curled into a little ball. She was so small I could barely keep my eyes off the road. How does something so lovely wander so far off and land here with me? I wasn’t even sure if she was still breathing,  it had been a long night and she certainly pushed her limits. I couldn’t concentrate,  I would look away from the road and stare at her sleeping until I felt the tires meet the grass, then I would correct the vehicle and stare at her some more until it happened again and I did this almost the entire way home.  I wanted to keep her like that forever.  I decided I would leave that night and never come back. I couldn’t imagine things ever getting better than that exact moment and I wanted to make sure that no matter where I went from then on, no matter who I was with, I would always have her sleeping so beautiful in my head and I could find peace.
I carried her into her apartment and placed her on the sofa. She didn’t move a single muscle until I started to walk away and her little awkward fingers grabbed at my pant leg without even opening her eyes. She was so weak that her hand just fell right off as I walked away. She was a helpless little toy and I had grown old. I had realized tonight that the memories of things you once loved are much stronger than things you still have.  Love is like a loud roar and people grow so used to it over the years that it eventually blends into the background. The same way people that live near great waterfalls no longer hear it. I carefully created a situation and a woman that I could hear loudly and love forever. This was the only thing that made sense.

People these days naturally put up walls to protect themselves. You can’t blame them, the world is a cold place and “survival of the fittest” has never been so prominent. But sometimes,  its not the walls that you have to worry about. Sometimes they are placed there for your benefit. You could build a great mansion with all the walls me and her built from each other and the rest of the world. But all the items decaying in the crawlspaces behind her walls made this great palace uninhabitable. 

I locked the door behind me and tossed the key to that great home down a sewage drain.

Standard