There Was Only One

A moment

of quiet observation passed

as she studied him

without his knowing it

and wondered

how many times

his body

had entwined with hers

bringing calm

to her anxious soul?

Skin on skin

lips searching soft flesh

until the moment

of lift off

when she would leave

her confusing world of pain

to soar on the wings of pleasure

and arrive at a destination

unreachable with any other travel agent

for he alone

had added the fuel

of True love…

Oh, her body

had experienced

the building of energy

until explosion

on more occasions

than she cared to keep track

but never

NEVER

until he had come along

had her soul

and spirit

left to join

in the dance

with another’s

in that unlabeled dimension…

Was it the same for him

she wondered

as she watched

him strum

the strings

and mouth the words

he’d written on the page

was she too his only

travel partner?

The day he left

the subject had

never been broached

so she could only hope

that she had taken up

a permanent residence

in his heart

left a stain

that could not be removed

a scar that he would forever

look upon

with a sorrowful longing

no matter how many years passed…

Alone in her aging skin
she was acutely aware

of his absence

Did he ever think of her?

Did he ever wonder

if perhaps he had listened

to the wrong voices

maybe wished he hadn’t been so quick

to agree with the detractors

that she was too young

He'd wanted to settle down

they'd said

he needed someone more mature

as years passed

they guaranteed

she
would grow discontent

and then he
would be gravely disappointed…

Nineteen

hadn’t really been the issue

Almost thirty

had

Why…

why did he

have to be so old?

Why…

why did she

have to be so young?

At sixteen

and twenty-six

he hadn’t seemed to mind

as they soared

those dimensions

relieving each other’s

tensions

A cigarette

and so much more

passed between them

under the watch of the moon

long conversations

about

God

and dreams

and everything

in between

they were still talking

when the dark was darkest

just before the dawn

and they watched

the sunrise together

before sleep

overtook them

and then one

or the other

would awake

to day

or night

depending upon

how tired they had been…

How could she have known

in all those years ahead
seeing the moon at night

and sun at daybreak

would bring pain

so deep...
God, she still missed him

God, she murmured,

does he miss me?

spontaneous loss

Tell me
tell me how to feel
should I cry
should I laugh
should I just sit silently and watch
as life goes by
like a parade on the first day of winter
when everything is thinking
of the cold to come
and mourning the loss of warmth

tell me
tell me how to act
should I clap
should I cover my eyes
should I just sit silently and watch
as the world turns darker
with every violent act

tell me
tell me how to be
should I be happy
should I be sad
should I cower in fear while you decide
your hand raised
to pat me on the back
or smack me across the room
again

tell me
tell me please
for I lost my spontaneity
the day the sky fell in
and the world went cold
that first day
I needed to be told
because even though it did
the sun never rose

stifled...

Some days it feels like

there is something inside me

waiting to break out

I feel like the Hulk

as he’s turning green

you know that moment

right before his pants and shirt start to rip

Only it feels like

whatever it is

isn’t so destructive

It’s an unexpressed something

but it doesn’t feel like rage

It feels more like stifled….

stifled…

stifled…

oh, I don’t know

just something stifled

It puts me in mind of that famous painting

you know the one

with the skull faced character

its hands up to the sides of its face

its eyes bulging

its mouth filled

with a silent scream

It kind of feels like this, only not at all... 

but on days like this

I can kind of relate to that character

Everything around me seems normal

normal people

taking normal walks

on a normal bridge

that must lead to Normalville

the sky is a normal sunset orange

the water blue

and yet 

I feel anything but normal

All the armchair psychiatrists would say

"it's anxiety"

but that's because they’d be analyzing the painting

not me

and that's because I can’t seem to put what I feel into words

It's kind of like an unwritten song waiting to be sung

or an untold story waiting to be told

or maybe an unpainted canvas waiting for its artist to arrive

but notes don't come

and picking up a pen or brush

only seems to breed frustration

and I am left to wonder

if others feel this same pent up force

that can’t seem to find an escape?

* The Scream by Edvard Munch