He says it's not an outlet. At least, it isn't as much of an outlet as it used to be. He says that for now, all it is is a habit. And habits die hard, so he says. But it's stopped being art.
He doesn't let her read it anymore. It's too painful. And he's no longer as strong as he was with the pain. He can no longer escape pain as easily as he used to. Funny how important that fact used to be to him. How he would strut around like the inflated peacock he thought he was. Funny how his ability to move beyond any excruciating pain defined the basis of his character. How he would think of himself as a tree rooted in strength with all the branches coming out developing his personality.
He knows it's a waste of time to think about her. All that ever did was bring an onslaught of negative thoughts that never failed to make his day somewhat worse. Has it prompted his return to the world of poetry? But it's not poetry, it's a desperate attempt for life.
I never longed for winter, your presence always made me shiver.
It's hard to believe that sometimes things change radically for the worse and sometimes so suddenly.
Sometimes, outside in the cold, you would never notice the chilly brisk in an afterthought of the morning breeze. The soothing winds in a blistering summer heat.
Some mornings are harder than others, but he thought he could pull through it. Thought, past tense.
When the forgotten whispers started to undulate around you, the changes had already been put into motion
Some nights are better than most, the thoughts being drowned out by the overbearing weight of the rest of the sleepless nights. She was curled up beside him, her feet always cold, her body always smaller. The soothing presence only comparable to the stars that blinked above them. And when she's there, he sleeps through the night, sleep so deep it resembles only age-old trees silencing the forest.
The brisk thoughts that would arise from being in your presence. The overtone that changed my heart.
The nights she's not there, though. Restless sheep jumping through the air, no meadow in sight, crashing and breaking bones, no graceful leaps. These nights he can only think of the infinite studies for sleeping drugs that never work on him. The anesthesia isn't created from the other drugs that helped thousands though. It's created from the exhaustion of tear ducts, the natural development of logic turned to the heart.
The warmth everyone searches for never appeared when I was beside you. I was summer, you were winter.
You were the fading light in the midst of blue larkspur. I was the tanning sun amongst the patches of black-eyed Susan.
While most days the paper never sees life, he will give it the attention it craves, for hours if need be. It's a mixture between the want of the remembrance and the hate of the memories, leading to the ultimate lack of scripture. But it's getting better, he says. He's started writing poetry again.
But every cold spell is fought with the warmth of homemade soup. And you adored my soups. And every desert needs it's chillier nights to give momentary respite to its inhabitants.
She's the inspiration to his recovery, the cause of his desolation. And the days she sat beside him. She's his best work, she's his worst thoughts. And the days she would have her hand curled up in his hair. She chases away the black, the very blackness that comes to her call. And the days a kiss on the shoulder was the replacement of the cigarette he would start craving. Her power fuels him, it sucks his energy out of him. And the days hours turned to minutes, when silence spoke of the unspoken love.
You weren't the yin to my yang because each of us had the other already in us, we were two semi-complete souls in search of our last missing piece. I was your old-comforting blanket, you were the ice in my cocktail. You were me, and I was you.
But the seasons are changing and the wind is getting restless. I don't know how much strength my sail has left in it, how much life I can give giving it, the stitches are no longer holding it together. I've tried to give myself more stitches and I'm running out of thread. Stitches aren't enough for a broken heart.
But why is it cold suddenly?
That cold touch he recognizes. He's looking around, his vision blurry, his heart pounding.
You're gone now and I no longer have it in me to feel anymore. You are this
It's too familiar, the breath he feels over his shoulder, the perfume he used to love smelling on her, the correct size of the hand he used to hold so often.
You are this poem, the winds of life you took with you. You are the
It can't be! He's starting writing poetry again to stop living in her memory. He can't have her in his life anymore, he has to stop imagining she's there with him. Deep breaths he's so used to going through to stop the inevitable anxiety attacks her memory brought him.
You are the life I no longer have, the soft light in a muted world. I'm tumbling down the dark crevice your death opened for me. I'm turning into nothing without you.
And yet, it is. She's here with him, he knows.
She was gone, he promised her he would live on. He promised himself he wouldn't be able to live without her.
But she's here, he knows.
Bringing her death to memory is much too painful, but he can't stop from chastising himself for being so bold to think she's still alive. Death is final, death is ultimate, death is the one unchanging shift in the continuous change of the universe. Death has her in a tight hold.
But she's here. He knows it's her breath he's feeling over his shoulder, he knows it's her perfume he's smelling, he knows the hand resting on his shoulder is hers, he knows those eternally curious eyes are reading the poem he's writing for her. The previously blackened room is dawning with her presence.
But, once more my love, you save me. You bring the cooling thoughts to my overheated heart.
He writes for her, he writes with her. He's started writing poetry again.
Only this time, he's not escaping a reality without her. He's started writing poetry again to show everyone, to show himself, the wonderful soul that she was. He's starting writing poetry to feel again, to live again, to keep her alive.
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