I imagine what it would be like:
To feel my hand upon your body,
My ear upon your chest,
To hear the strong and steady rhythm
of your heartbeat,
Inspired by nervous anticipation.
To draw my palm along warm skin,
To bring it softly to your face,
One delicious moment savoured,
Holding time just before our mouths should meet,
Tingling with nervous anticipation.
Drawing fingers gently from your brow,
Along familiar jaw I’ve never touched,
Breathing in our frozen moment,
This exquisite Zen suspended just before us,
Perfected by nervous anticipation.
Will this to last forever,
This magick moment before lips touch,
Dwell within this perfect pause,
And all will go on beyond this static place;
Complete, with nervous anticipation.
But you speak in a whisper,
As I dream out loud,
Images singed by darkness,
Words without soul.
The forlorn gaze,
Of one defeated before battle,
And the desperate voice,
Of one always unheard.
Wander without guide,
No destination far enough,
Always too close,
To hear your silent heart.
I must admit, I’m rubbernecking,
Curious as to what kind of egomaniacal, patriarchal, bullshit you’re regurgitating today.
The draw is like that of a terrible roadside collision:
Human nature gets the best of me and I cannot help but look at the certain disaster that will reveal itself to searching eyes.
And like that disaster that I don’t want to see, but do,
I always find myself returning to see what kind of deluded dramatic display you’ve written yourself into yet again,
With regard to none but yourself, how you crave the accreditation from those you believe to be your audience…
Could they, too, simply be incapable of averting their eyes?
Waiting for your inevitable crash and burn whilst silently laughing and shaking their heads at your blatant display of jackassery?
A moment of perfect synchronicity imbues one with perfectly pure lust,
What may pass as a moment of absolute clarity is merely insanity in guise.
Nothing is more true or certain than “if it seems too good to be true, than it probably is.”
And so I place myself confidently in the arms of imperfection.
Happiness ebbs and flows with the most certain uncertainty.
This, in striking contrast to the certain fleeting moments of happiness which are swiftly replaced by the most dire of miseries…relentless miseries with no end in sight.
Of what kind of insanity am I possessed to even begin to entertain the possibility of such an existence?
A brief high, a short romance and then the condemnation of a bitter, foul emptiness.
Yes, I will chose time and again the imperfection of years that have somehow become perfected by their own faults.
Something that has rooted itself deeply and permanently cannot be tarnished by those passing moments of the promise of something better…happiness cannot be extracted from something forged by lust created through anger and desperation.