Tenth of January

I am melancholy. It's the 10th of January. Not too late for New Year's Resolutions that won't be kept. I miss you terribly, dearest. The saddest part of this is that I do not allow myself to express these sentiments to you, because I am too afraid, though I know, you too, hunger for affection and loyalty.

I've turned off the lights and sunlight, dimmed by snow, peers through the garden window. Miles Davis, Autumn Leaves.

I am somewhere on the verge of tears and sadness. Most of all this confusion, descends... much like when you're kissing me, your tongue so expert, whether in sweet whispers or in ardent, voracious appetite for my flesh, teasing me, keeping me titillated. Like Tantalus might have grasped at the feast, I am liminally hovering, my state never quite anything definable. Beneath you, held in your powerful arms and possessive hands, I arch, plummet, claw at release, beg for your mercy.

I love to beg.
I realize that this is my choice. To hover. To refuse clarity.
The familiarity and resonance makes me weep.

I can hear the distant wingbeat, the pulse erratic,
as it tires from constant flight.
It isn't time yet, no.
Please.
Please.
Just a few more weeks
and I promise it will be spring.

How long the way still is.
My steps, still forward, are slow and plodding.
Especially in this snow, as it begins to gather.
Such a picturesque backdrop to my self-destructive tendencies.

Can someone shake up this snow globe and topsy turvy everything
'til things settle down right again?

On the verge of tears. And release.
How I miss you, dear baby.
How I miss you.

How long 'til your return?
And how will things have changed
for a person so afraid of change?

I hope I can withstand the distance, the temptations, the emptiness of spirit,
how quiet and dim my world is when you are gone.

You, dearest,
the object of my affection, my distraction.