Desolate

I bath.
I bath not because I am dirty.
Not because I am hot or sweaty.

I bath, hoping to soak the water up like a sponge.
Hoping to somehow fill myself.

To fill this desolate part of me.
This part that so desperately wants what it never gets.

here I lay, like a desert never getting enough to fill all the cracks.

So, I leave the water running.
Myself. Feeling like a draught in the middle of winter.

In Retrospect.

In retrospect I look back and indulge in the pains and sorrows.
In the smiles and the giggles.

I allow the colors to splatter and drum down on me.

First I see his harsh words during a spell of Poems and Stories.
Catcher in the Rye.
I see
His blue eyes and charming smile.

The childish antics to get my attention, my heart?

Without failure it led to an over whelming bout of emotions. Colors of red and blue start to join in the splattering.
Infatuation grew and memories developed.

In retrospect
I glance at our first kiss.
Our first dance beneath the silk comforts.

Once a place to sit now the check point to our first.
Our first.

Where it all started, the beginning of the end?

Words of promise.
Love.
Could it be?

Lies, maybe.

Yearning for truth. Wanting the lies. He begins to cry, my words slither back and grow dormant once more. By him, many a time it is said and regretted.
But if regretted? Why said?
Confusion flowers, just to die when the word is whispered.
Love.

perhaps

And I did, I did believe that a difference would be visually clear.
That the resemblance of even a string of endurance, assurance, clarity.

I guess that that was the ultimate desolation for me.
Expecting without knowing.
Knowing what the consequences of wanting were.
Deficient amiable devotion.

Perhaps it was my abundant tending, desire.
Perhaps just my inclination.

I can sit upon hours of empty feelings and wonder, with assumption and fault myself.

Perhaps is was the constant skirmish, the harsh words ands strong feelings.
Projected.

With claims of adoration and feelings unsaid.
A weary look as he shares his touch with you.
Claiming innocence.

A storyteller of sweet, raw emotions flowing towards which tumble into ecstasy and then oblivion.

Truth

Inside. 

She screamed, cried, billowed and ran. 

Outside. 

She smiled, giggled and hopped. 

Desperation

Desperation.
Etched into my skin I feel your warmth.
I breath your pungent musky smell.Almost tasting your cigarette and coffee I lurch forward, trying to grab for a keepsake.

Remembrance flooding from your eyes.
Falling deeper, like pools of confusion.
Grasping. Failing. I finally sink. Realizing the gap between the vale of purity and destruction.

Titters Form Petals.

As if with every tap a butterfly pulls itself from her fingertips.

Surrounded by a globe of light, secure.  Bubbling with titters and chortle.
Petals drift down and form a path.
Creating a scene of golden bliss in a broken, singed labyrinth.
She drapes her memories with liveliness.

Despite their drab inner feature, exuberance come with.
Alone, not so sure, happy, all the more a bore.
She carves her path, labyrinth or more.

A fool's paradise her only cornerstone.
Up in arms with her spent moments.
Petals still floating to the floor.
She carves her path, labyrinth or more.