Almost Conversations

You think you want to hide. Get cozy there in your cave. You're content hidden until someone finds.

He sent a message that among other things, said, "We both have a lot to talk about."

I just yelled at the screen - No Fucking Way!

It seems we've already talked, so many times. About everything and nothing.

He's a great talker. And just as good at listening. But I tend to speak that way. By listening. And it's hard to hear.

I don't know how he found me. I don't know why he would even seek.

But the only question that matters now is whether or not I wanted to be found.

I don't know. And even if, did I want to be found by him?

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The other day I discovered a site (trainwrecks.net) has linked here. Evidently they think alcohol and poets should be separate. Huh... what world do they live in?

It was cool and funny and all. I even linked back to them. It doesn't make sense to most people. All this darkness. They see the words and think this is what I am. It's always been a problem. No one seems to get that the words, the dark, are only one facet to a many sided stone.

If I really felt I was a trainwreck, I would've been more hurt. But I'm all right for now. The pain simmers in me and I ladle it out into this empty bowl. Soup to feed the loneliness. The pain is in everyone. But very few of us are fortunate enough to find nourishment in it. To make it our own instead of it owning us.

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I wanted to know and now I wonder if I can. Or should. The shifting of the smallest pebble alters the entire mountain. It's not enough just to climb. When you can't go over, you must dig through it. Follow those tunnels in your mind as they lead you deeper. Out is not what we seek. We want to go further. Wherever that might lead.

She must know. We to eachother. The weight of the word's appraisals. Thick on tired fingers. Alone together. That the words build a labyrinth. The more we write the more complex the maze becomes. That they own me. Always have. I am their slave. Trapped inside a voice that never speaks.

The more they listen the less they hear.

I think I could know her. And maybe she could know me. That we could be alone with each other. And we'd not have to change, but things would.

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He said I should close the sigh tag and I almost wrote back. That the sigh never closes. That's important.

And I wondered why. Then. Before. Now. As if answers are something love has ever offered. I remembered his hair. Orange and soft like an autumn sunset. And the time I wanted to touch it, but was afraid.

He split me open like a blossom ready to burst. And every color once hidden screamed with relief.

All that happened between us was too important to me to let him become just another lover who wanted to be friends.

Friends I thought, was something we always were. So why should after be different than before or during.

No one wants it to be or can explain, but it always is.

We can't go back. And why start again? Just to lose what little we have left.

He said he'd be nice to me if I was nice to him. And I thought, I always had been. I just can't pretend when I'm sober that this is what I want to be.

All these almost conversations leave me with the feeling that nothing is as real as it once was. Life. I don't really know what to do with it. But I try.