Arteries

If I could fold you up
like a square piece of paper
and put you in my pocket,
and keep you there forever,
I would never miss you
never struggle against you
or lose you.
I could bend you
to my less-than-divine will
and tear you up
whenever I was unhappy
and I could have complete--
complete control.
I would possess the power
to drop you in the trash,
tear you to pieces,
or fold you up into an airplane
and send you on your way.
But no,
you could never be that bendable,
never be that dispensable,
never be that two-dimensional.
You must be essential
inhabiting my soul
in ways I can't predict or manipulate
rising up like my breath,
keeping time like my heart,
arteries filled with you,
unseen through my skin,
but necessary for my survival.

You're essential.

Davy Jones

Reconciling you
with the you you used to be
has become my only task.
My heart fills to the brim
with confusion, with thoughts
and my eyes see what they want
and my ears hear what they need to,
while my heart feels
everything, simultaneously.
My mouth doesn't want to talk
my mind doesn't want to think,
and my heart doesn't want to feel.

Yet I harbour this ship,
constantly sitting in my port,
carrying everything I've had,
along with everything I've lost,
with no hope of leaving,
but yet it's never really here.
A captain who can't decide
and I, as uncertain as the tide,
unable to hide the emotions
from our sea-worn faces.
We are drifting here,
through storm and calm,
just drifting here.

We have no other choice.

Playing God

I have adopted

whatever looks similar 

to a concrete conclusion, 

because answers, 

no matter how inaccurate, 

are better than nothing. 

Right?

You have played this out
like a mad-libs game,
with "insert the name of God"
written under every blank space.
Because that's the only way
you can make sense of things.
Right?

And I have written

my own ending 

to this never-ending-story, 

because you already have, 

and I think it's only fair 

that I get the last word.

Right?

Wrong. 

Because we have both failed

in our attempt to be wise, 

to realize that we don't know the end. 

And you can say that you do 

until the cows and the pigs fly, 

but you don't. 

I'm sorry but you just don't. 

To Distract a Weary Mind...

I seem to have this immediate need to throw my energy into anything but thinking. 
I was watching The Golden Girls with my grandmother last night, and laughed so hard I cried. In a "eureka!" moment, I realized this show would do just the trick in distracting my exhausted heart and aching mind. Currently Watching: Episode 13 of Season One. 


Favourite Character: Sophia. She reminds me of my grandmother, but Italian.
Second Favourite Character: Rose. Dumb as a stump, but so kind and tender-hearted.

Something Beautiful

Everything in my line of sight
is a slightly broken reflection
of what was once so beautiful.
My dull eyes used to shine,
with a joy that you inspired in me,
And my empty hands used to hold yours,
with such light and honest hope,
but now all I have are the memories.
The tiny snap shots of our story
that never had this end in mind.
There's no rewriting, no reliving,
just the one comforting thought:
that if I look at something beautiful long enough,
then maybe I'll remember what beauty is.

Four

Dear Mr. Blue,

This morning I woke up
and you were here,
almost as if you never left,
and you were the same in every way.

Your eyes were drawn back
just like they've always been,
and your words were weak,
like they always will be.

I wanted to hear your words
wanted to look into those eyes,
wanted some sort of understanding
that you have yet to offer me.

This morning I woke up
with month old tears clinging to my cheeks.
I'm mourning you, Mr. Blue.
I'm mourning you.

Yours,

Eleanor

Because

His eyes may be sorry

and his shame may be heavy,

but nothing changes.

Faith fell through the fingers

of nervous and broken hands.

Her heart may be empty

and her words may sound forgiving,

but nothing changes.

Hope was laid to rest

in a necropolis of dreams.

The only thing that changes

is the way we come to the Father,

with open mouths and weary eyes.

Asking the same question,

to a God who only has one answer.

"Why?" we ask.

Because. 

Three

Dear Mr. Blue,

I regret to inform you that nothing has changed.

Misused and misdirected,
Is my once single heart.
Stop all your hiding,
So I can be released from my fear.

You're running through my thoughts,
Opening all the locked doors,
Unable to stop.

Please stop. 

Yours,

Eleanor.

You Never Learn

You never learn your lesson.
Making the same mistakes,
Taking the same missteps,
Leading you down the same paths.

You grieve once you hit the wall,
but you overlook your own folly,
that brings you there every time.

And you call yourself careful,
and you call yourself wise,
but I witness none of these things.

You're playing the same game,
spinning the same web,
trying to catch something,
only to throw it away.

You never learn your lesson.
Or maybe it's me that never learns. . .