Fuel of Life

A delicious gray moon,
Under cold coal sky,
The breath of passion lies in the air,
To many you are just one,
But to me you are the fuel of life,
A turning and crashing of an unknown sea,
You fill the empty corners of sadness,
To quit the ecstasy of you,
Would be to deprive the young of life.

Why Do I Feel This?

The corners of his mouth turn up a little into a half smile, like he’s trying but can’t quite move his lips enough. Nothing about his smile is amazing or brilliant or big, but it’s warm in the cold night air. It’s as if he’s afraid that if he smiles wide enough, all his secrets will come tumbling out. His eyes say he’s hiding a lot. I want to clear a passage into his head. I wonder what’s in there. Maybe memories of lonely nights with no parents to hold him. Ever so slighty a pang of emotion smacks me in the chest. I know what it is. It weakens my body and softens every muscle. I shouldn’t feel like this. I want to know if he’s broken inside, and if it’s something my heart can fix.

Wander Lust

Lovely stars they are,
You are so very far,
Far across the highest peak,
But you’re here when of you I speak,
Your strength.

Flamboyance of an Autumn night,
Because you care in spite,
of all the faults and trials,
The sharp fractures of a tile.

You are the one I hold,
Things I have not told,
Like the moon behind a crest,Our lips together firmly pressed,
Your infinity.

And when the summer sun doth rest,
In harmony and clarify we be our best,
To fill the void within our chest,
The timing is just,
To succumb to the blandishment of lust.

The Pros and Cons of Dating A Friend

So you’re dating a goof friend. The two of you have a strong mutual attraction. Wait, they’re no longer a friend. And at this point it’s rare that a friendship between you two will ever exist again. Once you cut the legs off your pants to make shorts, they’ll never be pants again. You could of course sew the pants back together, but they’ll never look quite the same.

Then again, dating a friend can be a great choice under the right circumstances. They know you and what you like. Maybe the chemistry between the two of you just clicks. They know your goals and the type of person you want to be with. And they can better be that person than a stranger you just met. Your friend turned significant other can either be downright awkward or not in the least. Awkward because your other friends might have mixed opinions or not awkward because you are more comfortable talking to them. Is it worth losing your friend for a relationship? It’s subjective.

My Heart Still Skips a Beat

It’s just you and me. Alone. We never thought this day would come. Why can’t you just leave and spare me the smoldering fire within the hearth of my heart. You want to go to your sanctuary, you say. You know better than this. You know I’m not going to be capable of declining. So we walk side by side. I take in every detail of you, memorize you again to compensate for what was lost.

That fire was out. It had died. But I gave you the matches. You lit the fire. That snap of electricity smacks me square in the face. Once again my heart is pounding. You aren’t new or exciting or wonderful. You’re just unreasonably intoxicating. You open the door. Heart skips a beat. There’s no one in the room. I could pass out. I casually grab a chair near the door. You think it’s because I’m about to sit down. You’re wrong. It’s because the thought of being alone with you after this eternity is just too tempting.

You run your hands along the orchestra instruments. Palms start to sweat. I either want to a) slap you for putting me in the this situation or b) stride across to where you are and slam my lips into yours. It takes all my self control not to do either or both of the above. If our lips ever did meet again it would have catastrophic consequences. That concentrated fire would rage into a fast moving fireball of passion.

There’s Something About Him

I have a bunch of writing lying around that I think is crap. But someone once told me to have more confidence in what I do. And thanks to you for helping me expand my horizons, even though you did it in the most a**hole way possible. Therefore, I’m taking a risk by posting more of my stuff. Please tell me if you like it or if I should burn it.

My conscience lies deep below the crashing waves, flooding my mind to its full capacity. I awaken from something that is not sleep. My thoughts are far too erratic for the normal person, I think. He says he will be late. I sigh a bit and let it all go. I have maybe half an hour to fantasize. This activity I enjoy, because with the combination of my own wanderlust and music, I can vividly imagine anything about him. The sickly sweet concoction of addictive beats and thoughts produces a high to which I cannot compare to anything else. As if I’d had some other experience to compare these feelings with.

The doorbell chimes viciously, interrupting the mess within my mind. It’s him, and Lord does he look lovely. His clothes never really match, but somehow it makes him perfect. I have a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that is eating away at me, yet it is so right. I’m choked up, as if someone has clutched my neck and held me breathless. I apply my best, winning smile like I have no cares. I greet him. Words escape my mouth, but they come from a portion of my brain that keeps me from falling apart when there is nothing to say. Of all things, I wonder if I look presentable. I have this theory that if my makeup is just right, I say all the things he wants to hear, and I smile like I’ve never frowned, he’ll see past the ugliness I know I can conceal.

Time passes like sand through my mental hourglass. He sits across from me on a desk chair like he is something of a psychologist. He’s 4 feet away, but right now there is no difference than if it were 4 miles. It’s too far. I want him next to me. I want to feel his touch, which is indescribable as anything other than gentle. I hold back due to my thoughts that he is like a cat, affectionate at times, but timid if his weaknesses are identified.

My mind is still floating throughout dinner and during a short walk we take. I carefully brush my arm against his as we stroll my neighborhood. He takes the hint and holds my hand in his. Even this is too much, my thoughts flutter from my head and I have no syllables to speak. All I can possibly comprehend is his touch. And when I have that, nothing else matters. I make a desperate attempt and grab hold of what fragments of a conversation I possess. We return home and I open the front door as silently as possible. I don’t want to socialize with my parents, not with this feeling in my veins.

Somehow we are back in my room, where I am closest enough to comfortable with him around. I motion for him to come sit next to me. The weight shifts to the other side of my bed. I feel quite whole now. I run my fingertips over his pale arm before taking his hand once more.

My thoughts are somewhat bewildering, such as the reason why his veins are so visible is because he is a creative being. Therefore, he needs more blood pumping to his brain to be able to develop such elaborate works of poetry. My current worry of many is that he can read through my thoughts like they are emails back and forth.

We discuss things, things that don’t mean shit because being with him almost overloads my aching mind. He is stroking my thumb with his. I am having a hell of a time focusing. I pretend I don’t notice it in order to continue whatever pointless statement I’m blurting out at the moment.

Next thing I know, his arm tightens around my waist. Classic, but it’s more than ok. In a spare silence, I quickly think back to the sonnet that was clearly discussing my character and behavior. He had written, “The hope that she loves me too, I cling.” I debate whether he genuinely believes he loves me or if it is just a budding thought he put down on paper. Hell, I don’t know.

My mind is startled into reality for the millionth time today when he is rubbing my forearm up and down with his thumb. My universe, my dreams, and my desires all come crashing down in a beautiful, disastrous fashion. I’m paralyzed, I can’t talk any longer, it’s too much. All I am capable of is wondering whether he knows that this is driving me crazy. I want him to quit because my brain can’t function to speak. However, I egg him on telepathically to keep going, because in times like these words are not necessary. They are just barricades to prevent expressing these twisted infections called feelings.

I am experiencing a sensation neither new nor old. It is not relative to anything man-made. Whether I have felt it before, I cannot fathom. It is a connection between my heart and brain. It is white noise, expect it is felt instead of heard. This unknown frightens me and excites me so.

It is in this very moment that I realize what makes me want him. He has an unspoken rhythm in everything he does. Not just those wonderful, obvious things, like when he picks up his guitar. Or when I read one of his poems to myself and smile. No, it’s in his touch, his voice, the way he looks around constantly when he’s nervous. If only I had such a rarity as well, I would be worthy of his affection. I am so empty of talent, of consistency. Why he cannot see that I do not understand. Sure there are other fish in the sea, but none will ever swim is gracefully as he does…

Bethany Durham

Image