Prostrate

You were my rock, my only one. And I kicked you aside, in my ever-present callousness and overconfidence. Today I had a glimpse of your rejection and your abandon. Just a glimpse. But such a cold came over my heart- that chill of fear I will never forget, my frozen palms- clammy and shivering, even as I write this to you.

Will you ever find it in your heart, in those intense depths, to forgive me, my dear? Will I ever have your blessing again? Will I, if I become a smaller me? Will I, if I turn over a new leaf? Will I, if I go back to simply hovering around you again?

Give me a sign. Hold my hand. I lie prostrate before you and ask... Please take me back. Please...

Wield

She is a phantom, a ghost almost. He- an unsuspecting boy, enshrouded, engulfed even, in her gossamer personality. Today, many sunsets later, he lives on- altered, unrecognizable. He sometimes fondly reminisces the sunshine she had promised to be. At times, he wistfully smiles at the deceptive ease that had crept into their life and tempted to stay on forever. Where did they go- that crafty innocence, her innocuous charm, that illusory permanence? Where did that girl go?

He is a fleeting shadow, dancing to a whimsical physics of his own. She- ever the idealist, lost in her eternal wait for his storied love. Today, she dreams on, still grappling wildly at the threads of romance he'd once spun around her. She sometimes steps in the sunshine, only to hastily retreat, cowered by his blinding absence. At times, she tugs at a stray cord of memory, only to have him slide even deeper into the crevices of her heart. Where did they vanish- that addictive touch, his disarming wit, that melting smile? Where did that boy vanish?

Choices... Paradoxes...

wild fantasy

for suspense is only enticing until wrapped in ribbons

gnawing hunger

for even the most indulgent satiety decays into ennui

reckless insomnia
for what grander theft than stealing from nature itself

eternal, all-consuming fire

for only so long can you fan a gentle diminishing flame

willing inaction
for what higher freedom than righteous self-restraint

relinquishing to the heart

for what greater victory over the ever-imposing mind

Pattern

The very same words
from a pitiful vocabulary,
shamelessly rearranged
to deceive you
that this time is different.

Masochist

I must be a masochist.

I elicit echoes from unwilling spaces. I vainly search for reflections in mirages. I hopelessly hold on to expired chimeras.

I endure, almost enjoy, the sharp twinges and dull aches of mindless running- all for a fleeting moment of peace. I even pass on sugar for bitter chocolate and for dark coffee that sears the throat, I know not why.

I wait eternally, voluntarily, for a string of soothing words- a quest I could give up far too easily. Remember, there is nothing I hate more than waiting?

I dream never to be real dreams. I often silence my rationality and submit to constant conflict. I invite, savor even, the violent extremes of emotion.

Sanity, I discard... Fear, I disregard... Darkness, I embrace...

I must be a masochist!

Heavy

Can I have them back?

wittiness, even lightness, if you will
smiling without reason
endless hours of focus
my wild wanton impulse
the possibilities I freely embraced
beautiful prose, of words effortlessly strung together
the solitude I once loved

Please come back!


Take them away...

this wistfulness, casting its dark shadow
this smile, reluctant and often disappearing
this obsession, a new one every moment
this weighty studied restraint
this imagination I helplessly shun
these sputtered words, masquerading as verse
this loneliness I so hate

Go away, I plead!

Again!

Again, I stand at crossroads.

Behind me- cherished moments- some won, most stolen. Oh how they dazzle- those guileless faces, eternally happy! Composure- lost and regained, time and again, slips away yet again. Serendipity- so undeserved yet so relished, insecurely I cling on.

Now- Familiar fears, of impending loss. Dreams and Demons- crisscross, unwelcome. A tempting unknown beckons. Anticipation- lick my lips; Anxiety- bite those lips.

Tomorrow-
Faces, to replace
Rituals, to reconfigure
Affections, to redirect

...the enormity of it bears down on me- at once promising, and threatening, and suffocating. 
Gotta move! Gotta run!