I’d be lying if I told you the situation was adequate.
Feigned indifference… no. The pretense of acceptance on how the way things have played out.
I could try to deny the hunger for it.
But all that is necessary to see past the thin veil of disinterest is a calculated glance,
a determined study of the eyes. They are the window, you know.
Look, and you would see the truth.
The hurt, the loneliness, the panic of inevitability that this will be all there is from here on out.
If only acceptance was possible.
But hope is a motherfucker. Hope taunts us with carrots in the noses of horses.
Hope is the smoothness of the beguiling creature at the coffee shop.
Hope is the zombie-loving, Lovecraft-reading, counter-culture mistresses that infrequent the pages of the online single directories: hinting in a self-professed feminist, yet oddly demure way, “I may be too good for you. But try your hand at being interesting and I MIGHT give you a shot.”
Hope kills the soul with every day that is perpetuated by the lack of HER.
The longing of familiarity. The cheap and momentous moment of the daily routine of the kiss before leaving. The curve of her side-lying, reclining form.
The ability with one touch to send her into writhing bliss.
I yearn for the bliss of that song.
I crave to smash my shipwrecked heart on the rocky doom of her embrace.
I would disregard all warnings of deception for the sweetness of that lullaby.
That song that plagues my conscious mind, the melody that wrenches at my chest.
But the song is lost. Muddled by so many echoing caverns.
Quieted by such vast expanses of limitless water.
Drowned in the noise of the tides of doubt.
To find that song again, is like casting a stone into the ocean…
And finding it surface once again in the hands of a siren.
And amongst the tumultuous crashing of the waters breaking on the savage crags and stone strewn shores…
All is quiet.
But the sweet sound of her song.