A Walk in the Cold

My breath rose, seemingly tangible before my face with each exhale as we walked side by side. Neither of us had spoken for a while, but rather focused on keeping our steady pace and taking in the chill evening, likely to be one of the last entirely tolerable ones of the year. My thoughts were few, but significant; refusing to be ignored. A memory here, an idea there, a yearning most prevalent among them. They shared a common face and voice. I wanted you to know the fondness with which I was thinking of you. I wanted to tell you that I felt everything you did was important, captivating and graceful. I wished I could confess, right then and there on that dark sidewalk, that you had my whole being at your disposal, whether or not you wanted it. I knew the words were there, ones which should have been spoken far away from that empty street and long before that night. I inhaled slowly, cooling my core, steeling myself to allow a brief glimpse at a more vulnerable and reckless side of me.

But would it be worthwhile?

There it was: the question I had so dreaded, and had known would arise. I wished then, and still do, that I had not known myself so well; fearing the hesitation may have guaranteed its awakening. Being a cautious person, I was bound to consider the possible consequences of such a confession as i was preparing to make. I thought of who I would hurt, who I might hurt, and everything that might be lost. Should you brush the words off, you might be rid of them, but they would remain echoing in the air around me, maybe forever. If only they would dissipate like the moisture on my breath, crystallizing and crumbling and becoming nothing after leaving my tongue. I couldn’t deceive myself; I knew that I would not speak. The struggle only lasted a split second. You didn’t see the flash of subtle self-disgust in my eyes. Maybe it was the breath: slow, deep, the exhale shuddering slightly. Whatever it was that broke your reverie, you were compelled to break the silence first.

“What’s on your mind right now?”

I paused briefly, composing my thoughts.

“Oh, nothing.”

I watched as the breath bearing my gentle omission froze, twisted, and was gone.

Points

It isn’t fair,
nor is it negotiable.
As I approach one,
I distance myself from another.
I manufacture this divide,
hoping for a smile
when I finally arrive.
I can only hope I know
what it is I yearn for,
because with each new mile
on this dusty odometer,
I break the bond a little more.
I hope for sunny, cloudless days
at the breaking of this bitterness.
Hearing only music,
seeing only blue.
Laying in the grass,
content to play the fool.

Crack in the Wall

“This is nothing.”
I’ll keep telling myself under my breath,
hoping that repetition will forge belief.
I know it’s not true, though,
my manufactured assurance.
The light from the monitor,
the tap of keystrokes,
the hum of electricity in the walls
of an otherwise silent house.
These are real, my calm is not.
Some turmoil has been brought
upon my mind’s waters,
usually so still and clear:
the manifestation of an ache
I have long refused to feel.
Reminding myself how good life is,
and how fortunate I am,
I’ve crushed the justification
for what I see as weakness.
I’m beginning to think, though,
that to feel lonely while not alone,
to remember and regret,
and to have so much, yet still yearn
are pieces of humanity.
So, tonight I hurt with no reason,
but you’ll hear no apology.
I only wait, and hope to believe soon,
“This is nothing.”

Tempest

All a dream…?
Everything’s forgotten now
except for tiny fragments
of visions, and a voice I knew so well.
There were times, I dreamed,
when the sky was filled with sunlight,
and blurry smiles filled faces all around.
But words brought storms,
and thunder crashed, and lightning cracked:
I split that sky so easily,
as the hateful fountain before me
glimmered with its borrowed light.
Fake beauty, nothing more;
the world was so distorted.
As suddenly as they appeared,
the clouds were gone
and only you remained.
There aren’t many words left;
only a few in my memory.
Among them, there’s a whisper,
simple, but powerful:
“Dream of me.”
And dream I did,
until the final storm.

Return

The dull ache in my hands and wrists
is strangely satisfying.
It tells a tale of long-forgotten feelings
rising to the surface of my weary being…
Rumbling forth in deep,
often melancholy chords.
Singing in soft treble,
melodic and serene.
Dancing an allegro
of graceful imperfection
as these rusty fingers seek the keys.
Crashing and triumphant,
heralding a new dawn;
a reminder that music is still a part of me.
I finally remember why it’s something that I need:
even with no words or voice,
through song, a soul will always speak.

untitled

Of Fate, I ask no recompense:
she played a stronger hand than I.
But, had I any hint of sense,
the victory could have been mine.

Her strategy now seems so clear,
and all the weapons I supplied:
my reticence, my pride, my fear.
I should have seen, but I was blind.

So now I stand and face my foe;
our game, for now, has reached its end.
As victor, cruel Fate seeks to know:
“Who will be spared: you or your friend?”

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I'll be moving posts over from my old (soon to be inactive) blog at http://www.radavid.net/blog in the next few days. I decided that I didn't really like web programming enough to use a whole hosted website, so I'm going to stop paying for something I don't use, and blog here instead. Thanks, Google!

P.S. - Why "Wolves That Fly", you ask? Well, abbreviate it. That's right, a lame acronym joke. Why? Because I feel like it. And because I can.