Not to Dwell

It is best not to dwell on what
could have been.
Focusing on potential
passed on
does no good.

Look around; the world is still
beautiful in spite of
your pain. The sun
still shines, people go about
their days and though it may seem
callous at first, take comfort.

Your are not alone
in this and all things.
The ones you love, who
love you, who
cherish you, are
here.

You have lost,
(perhaps more than the rest)
but
you have also
gained.

Feel the sun’s kind caress as it
kisses your shoulders; smell the
soft scent of
budding flowers; hear the
busy buzzing of bumble bees in their
never-ending need for nourishment.

Life goes on, and though pain is near
someday it will be far again. So
be weak if you must, lament the plans
we made, and cry in anguish against a universe
so unfair as this. It is earned; it is
yours by right.

But, remember that
Life goes on;
and it is best
not to dwell.

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Broken Promises

What is a promise? Is it
simply a wish one believes
will come true? Is there
any certainty?

What is it to be certain? Is it
to convince ourselves that we have
some knowledge of truth? Is there
any such thing?

What is faith? Is it
the whispered resistance of
a childless voice in the face of
all-consuming circumstance
despite the apparent knowledge that
providence
only foresees
misery?

What is the point when
well-wishes and
prayers for protection
f
a
l
l
short of
any reassurance?

What is a promise but
a lie laughed in the
face of
the deserving?

It was never a
promise; only ever
a fool’s hope.

Strawberry Lovers

Sweet.
Tangy.
Ripe like
plump lips;
a pale imitation when
premature.

Some add sugar;
a softening, synthetic sweetener for
those unwilling to accept the
built-in bitterness of its nature.

Some bite deep, severing the stem and smiling;
blood-red evidence of their enjoyment dripping
through bleached enamel.
A moment’s ecstasy, a cry of passion, a
sudden regret.

They do
not
savor the flavor, but rather
put on a show for all to see,
intentionally ignorant of their
lie and disdain for the taste.

Some engulf entirely, unaware or
uncaring for the fruit’s
comfort, its dignity.
They seek the fullness of experience and
leave nothing behind but
rejected leaves covered in
spit-slicked residue.
Left bereft of their sweetness, their
value, their
worth.

Gently, in thrusting lust, through the
long deterioration of time, or discarded
in the wake of moldering rot;
all will be consumed in one way
or another.

Thrust and Flutter

Yearning for release will bypass
apprehension.

A revelation in our intermingling;
when thrust and flutter
peel back our intricacies and rip
at the scabs of bitter romance
until taste slips sour
with the coupling of each kiss.

A beard brushing
amongst such soft skin
would bring about welcomed abrasion
until our cup runs over and,
amid that embraced conception,
the lingering question
of

“what comes next?”

remains.

Color Me Calloused

This was all misconceived.
Your misspelling a disguise of mated
souls in possibility.

If you need space,
I’ll leave.
If you need
time, I’ll stop taking yours.
But

don’t expect me to wait.

Maybe I’m not meant to be partnered.
Not everyone is.
Perhaps it is better to
seek the solace of staying single;
forever in the perpetual quest.

I was looking for
an excuse, and
you gave me one.

I had turned toward the door, but
you beat me through it.

Let’s not pretend this wasn’t
foreshadowed;

you were
never
my Destiny.

Love Songs

They exist in
a contradictory courtship
between the abstract and
specific.

Proclamations attesting to
the Divine
nature of love.

Laments of
time lost. Shrieks
of regret and
betrayal grating at
the worth of it all

How many were written
in hopes of gaining? How many
were
premature?

Which describe
the actuality?
What if they’re all just
pleas
for what can never
truly be?

Are they love songs,
or just songs about love?