Category: Loss
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Dear Friend
Some doors open,and other doors close.Perhaps,not quite in thetit-for-tat way thatsuper optimists imply.Yet,here you are: on the cuspof an amazingadventure. I wish you well. Andas the thread thatbinds our livestogether stretchesover13,000 kilometers,I know thatyou will flourish,grow, andexpand into anotherpart of your trueself.The dust ofcomfortable, everydaylivingfalling away to newthings, strangeplace, and unusualdialects. Then oneday, you’ll return,like…
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Tell me
who theyare, so thatI can hurtthem. Tell mewho has hurtyour heartso that Ican make thembleed, a deep, stickyred. Me, the personwho does notbelieve in vengeance,and is exceedinglykind. This time,I already know thatkilling themwith kindnesssimply won’tdo. So instead,I will armmy stored rage.My wrath againstunjust authority.And they willsuffer. Ugh. If onlylife was this simple.And retributionwas this easy…
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I’m frightened
and as Iwrite this,even more so.For I believethat wespeak thingsinto life.And this includesbad things. What frightens meis that youwill somehowdisappear, get lostor take yourself offto somewhere else,indefinitely.And more so,the prospect thatyou will simplyslip away slowly,your marvelousnessleaking through mygrasping fingers.The slow smoulderto death, throughinattentiveness,and that age-oldpassion killer: takingsomeone for granted. These are thethoughts thatkeep me up…
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These
randommomentssneak up on me.Quite unexpectedly. I wake up,and you’re there.So handsome, Ican barely look at you.The memories ofbliss, laughterand togethernessflooding in. I watch you atparties.Your swoon-inducing laugh,your humour…The view from this besottedplace, quite priceless. How did we gethere?Mating in captivityas lightening crashesall around. Firecracker,intellectualist,funnyman,mensch,doglover.The complete packagein amost deliciouswrapping. ~Lu
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Maroon
unlike T Swift,I despise it.Call it burgundy,oxblood, oreven garnet. See, this colourtakes me backto a darkplace.A place offear, hurt,abandonment,heartbreak,in fact, near-totalannihilation. And this wasmore than twentyyears ago,and the doer ofthe deeds islong gone.The scarsare mostly healed,and tattooed over.Yet.Burgundy hasthe uncannyabilityto bring itall back.Short, staccatoflashbacksof a horror moviewhich was oncemy life. The camera swayingBlairWitch-like,the fear tearing…
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When
the gremlinscome calling,they are scary, andcunning. They talk to us,in our own voices,knowing,we’ll believethe horrible thingsthey arethrowing around,their sole aimbeingtobask in oursorrow.They are gluttonsgrowing faton our fear,and shame,and the shadowsof ournot-good-enoughs. They prefer usweak,and small,and doubting.Oh howthey enjoythese things. And we canstay there. Hidingunder the bed,or in thecloset.Breathing hard,chest wetfrom our owntears. Or.We can simplycall…
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Blissed out
who knewthat thiswas evenathing.My bodyhumscontently.My mind isclear.My nervoussystem is dialledtoa deepforest green. Who knewyou would actuallycomeback,like you saidyouwould. Who knewwe couldpuzzle pieceour weekstogether,chatting andlaughing,while buildingthis ordinarylife,filling ourmarble jarto the brim.We bothknow therewill be withdrawals,and kinksin theroad ahead.There will bethick salty tearsin the back ofmy throat,and therewill alsobe more bliss,as we,the novicesstumbleforwardinto this randommagnificencewe continue to…
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For Che
To call yousweet,would be tosaythe same ofGodiva chocolateand whoon earthwould do that? There is a softness,a kindness,that glowsfrom you,yet much likethe Persianrice youserve us,there is a deliciousgrit at thebottom, a chewytenacity whichtransformsthe outer dish. While beautyis indeed, or at leastpartly, in the eye ofthe beholder,there an unmistakenawe thatflows from thefolds of yourmagnificence. Do not underestimatethe…
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Considering meeting Cerberus and other birthday complications
Birthdays can becomplex.On the happinessand lightside of thescale,there’s cupcakesand sprinkles,presents andjoy. There may alsobeneglect, orindifference,or simplyhaving nothingto give,or share. These aresome of theearly years’ birthdaythings. And yet,we move on,we grow,without thatpony, or puppyor senseof belonging. As supposedadults,they may retaintheirsame power:flipping theswitch back tothose vulnerabletimes…Waiting forother humansto arrive,only forno-one to pitch,being left out,or simplybeing consideredinconsequential. Yet…
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And then
we talkand I blowthe doors of my heartwide openexposing my fearand panic.And I literallysay exactly what’scrept under myskin,suddenly appearinglike an itchytapeworm,the compulsionto scratchso strong,while my blooddrips slowlyto the floor. And you tellme what I need toknow,and it’s not pretty,or tidy, or sugar-coated.It’s gritty, and horribleand tender, andreal, and itbreaksmy hearteven more open,to love you,to keep…