Carved

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What it was like, loving you

Describing what it was like, loving you
is akin to describing a dream.
I wake, overflowing with something like happiness:
a strange blend of exhilarated contentment.
But it’s fleeting: trickles away within seconds
as I hurl towards consciousness and so far away
from the thing that I don’t even know
that I want.

That I need.

I try desperately to linger there in those seconds,
clutching to shapes and shadows,
trying to make them out –
to liken them to something that exists in this world –
Something my normative brain might be able understand.
But it’s like trying to capture  smoke –
it disappears as soon as I my mind tries to grasp it.
I’m left confused, with just an indistinct sensation
that everything I ever needed was there,
but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
You see, I dream in light and colours and shapes and warmth
and faces that smile and hands that touch.

And I dream in feelings.

But not the kind you can ascribe language to.
I could try.
People forever invent words to say
what cannot otherwise be spoken.

énouement; onism; jouska; avenoir…

But even then, theses are just words to describe more words,
and the problem with words is that they are finite.
And my dreams are limitless.
As was my love for you.

Don’t ask me to describe it.

There is no language that exists to describe
what I live in dreams.

And there is no language that exists to describe
what it was like,
loving you.

Maybe
it was a
dream.

K.W.

I will remember…

I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

– Charles Bukowski

Alone

I’m not lonely because I’m alone.

I don’t yearn for flesh and bone,
or blunder from the folly of base desire.
I’m undaunted by the demons
that lurk in dark corners;
I am immune to the vast stillness
that descends upon 3am –
it can swallow me up;
no hand to hold could save me
from what I do not fear.

I do not crave another body to possess;
another ribcage to reside,
a heart to lay my flag,
or soul to beguile
with the illusion of
something they call
love.

I don’t seek another half;
why do you think I’m not whole?
I may be broken, love –
put back together in an ugly mess
of cemented cracks and misplaced parts,
but in here I am enough –
I am enough.
In here,
I am queen.

I am mine, alone,
and only to myself, will I ever belong.

No, I’m not lonely because I’m alone.
I’m lonely because nobody understands.

K.W