This Istanbul cold invades me, pervading every bit of me. I simpering shiver beneath its so unkindly clasping, me grasping that there is more to this, that somewhere between the pleasure and the pain, between breathing and being were moments of simple enduring honesty—a space, a place, a time so very extraordinary if only because in its utter banality it conveys such divinity— the perfectly quiet, subtle and unadorned moment when the greatest significance of life is expressed by nothing more than a touch.
she is a master at her craft a builder of extraordinary skill employing language deftly refined and meticulously set, her words one by anxious one rising as another wall emerges into the darkness of my days prohibiting useless dalliance, for all must have a purpose, even this matter between us that once glowed with passion, this once glorious act of love now extraneous to a fault
she has taught me much as the months have passed and I have struggled to find reason in this structure she erects, assuring myself that her silence is warranted by my own petulant brooding, her distance the result of my loathsome features— of course she does not touch me for who would choose to fondle this aging fetid flesh of mine— how much easier to keep building in simple untainted silence
I have learned my lessons well I abide within these walls
I have become all of the silences you have taught me to keep
[Thank you, dearest Allison, for your incredible talent at always discovering just the right words, which I then gleefully borrow from you.]
Mystical memories tremble this heart imparting moments of will that once filled me with impassioned zeal to live, to love.
I believed then, with near perfect certainty, believed in the veracity of my hopes, trusted in the capacity of this me to be as good, as grand even as my ambitions had painted me in my own thoughts, long since faded.
But the memories are there still, only greyed and frayed somewhat, torn by the incessant tumult within a soul that could never quite be sure it even existed.
I know people who compose lists that lyrically lead them from one bright aim to the next, inspired by the very abundance of their most meaningful dreams.
In the dark of the night alone I carve my moribund dreams into the very flesh that drips over my dubious ill-intended soul.
the deepest red in gently folding petals of a humble rose not the one beside it which was more than arrogant and unworthy but that one, the little one the quiet one and it touched my heart and made me long for love
I have seen
the most verdant greens stretching regally and true across all of Cumbria encircling Derwentwater where swans splash while ignoring the many curious visitors who have come to honor Wordsworth and revel in romantic verse and glory in ever trembling song
I have seen
the truest blues bedeck the skies over the bewitching redwoods ranging over California’s mountains standing proudly above the Pacific coast looking down over Santa Cruz and those vibrant sands and eternal waves that ebb and flow and never seem to find a reason to cease
and I have seen
the grayest of grays on solemn days and felt inspired to be nothing to do nothing feeling naught but the bitterness of age while listening to the mournful sounds of a heart that once believed only now to shudder in lonesome fear just waiting, still waiting