Saturday, August 2, 2014

Temporary, As You Need Me

A bottle of Red Label stares back at me, taunting my smoky clothes and ringing ears. A headful of cyclonic thoughts slow to manageable breezes. That's where the words flow and stack themselves into long run-ons and boundless paragraphs. But, somewhere in between, if you know where to look, you'll find the truth. There is hope in this seething gospel of heartbreak.

I will wait for you. But, I can only wait for as long as I am here and I can't even say how long that's going to be. I'm sure I would sit right here stuck to this leather chair, chain smoking and overdosing on self-pity for as long as it took. But, you have to understand it's just not up to me. I'm not in control of this moment anymore than I'm in control of the atmospheric front that is sitting on top of this town right now squeezing my head like a vice and pushing these words out. 

When the time comes and the grass is taller than my spirit can stand, I will be gone. I have no choice. I am the ghost of the ones who came before and as they've gone, so will I. You might not know it now, but you wouldn't want it any other way. You're not one to love the man who would sit under your moon every night for a summer. Fairy tales have happy endings. But, love stories are nourished and raised to manhood on a steady diet of longing. It is this man you want; this is the one you know you can't have. Our flesh is perishable and just like this moment it will degrade and disappear like fruit in the blazing sun. But, this hard and fast love, these nights, these scorching images we've branded into our memories, will never fade.

The dream is what you want. A healthy romp to boost your libido and push you through the mundane march of your lifestyle. You receive the one who was delivered to you in a glowing package of stage lights and lusty fame. For a day we lived a lifetime; you, feeling exalted as my muse and my only, and I, I am temporary, as you need me. I am not meant to be more, not capable of less. But, as the eleventh hour groans to an end, princesses morph into tramps and curse their pumpkins and your heart will go back the way it came, just as it should. The wind will sweep me up, carry me through another month of nightmares and then lay me down into another dream. But, only for a breath. Then again, I am gone. My love is a sweet and hopeful curse.