Over time, my loneliness began to manifest itself as a physical sensation. As it advanced upon my very being, I found it characterized not by the relative emptiness of the environments in which I reside at any given time, but by an ever-present void which resides in me. Imagine this void as a black hole of sorts, into which my figurative heart endlessly descends. Meanwhile, my literal heart beats more and more softly, failing to effectively assert a liveliness in me, pantomiming the lifelessness I feel. What solace I do take in the fleeting, fortunately dilated periods wherein the tapping of my heart is set to pounding by some chemically-derived influence. I am thankful that I can escape myself with relative ease these days, but find discontent and dissatisfaction in the inevitability of returning home to nothing.
She sits upon perfection’s perch, across a bar in which I search for something more distracting than the fact that she exists but is entirely apart from me. She is a work of art to me. I only wish her heart could see what mine has come to wish:
That is, for some plane of existence — some imbalanced, strange dimension — where a goddess pays attention to a regular who blends into the places that she visits.
Is it a possibility at all? Or is she not for me to call a love, or lust, or passing fling? A sudden burst of passion singing through me says perhaps that we could be a happy ending if we managed a beginning.
The things I pour myself into:
Writings in which I mention you;
Neglectful of myself and self-reflective of a someone else who isn’t me, and isn’t thee, and truthfully is lost to both.
Impressing love upon a ghost has set me fairly far from most of those I might have proffered close relationships. I’ve offered but remainders of a love that’s slipped as I have grown ashamed of it.
My heart has made a game of it:
To throw and run and try to catch or capture just a frame of it, before once more it flutters past and dopplers out its name at speeds embarrassing my shutter’s grasps at light. …
I’ve known the dawn and dusk
And dawn to dusk I rest so unassured,
But trust I can afford to love or lust
Some love of lustful cures
For miseries I’ve caught
Insistent sorrows I could not resist
With remedies I’d borrowed
From a life far less monotonous
Than that in which I hesitate to seek out reconciliation of the love I have misplaced; of the things from which my gaze so carelessly was set adrift when once my eyes had caught a glimpse and well, farewell it sought to wish
But death it did,
And bested me,
Invested in a…
It was kind of funny to see a sign for once, and even more so to take note of the naivety of its assertion: “Come back later.” As if anyone would look for love in the same place twice.
Truthfully, the shopkeeper had no real expectation that anyone would come around looking for love in his shop in the first place. Love had never really been in stock. Maybe a knockoff or two here and there, but true love? No, not at all. It was all the same, though, wasn’t it? Customers should know that there would be no hope of finding what they were looking for before devoting their precious time to searching for it. That’s what he believed, at least. …