Strange Breeze

Poetry to Prose III

I'm waking a stranger in my own bed, unrecognizable in disguise. It's always the same silhouette, but now with newly saddened eyes. Sit down, listen, repeat, play; it's my mistake to make. So let me, and let me go. Underestimate the draw and wonder if it's mere reaction. I wish it were; I don't want it to be more. It's my perfect situation, but the timing is cruel. Then again, isn't it always?

My pieces no longer fit the way I once knew or thought. This stranger-she's not special, she's just like every other one. I can feel the bricks being carefully placed silently so as not to disturb. You were hoping I wouldn't notice, but I do. And when I do, I daydream and drown. I'm lost without my map, and my jagged puzzle pieces are struggling to find a fit, to regroup, rebuild and make sense.

Let me look at you a little longer there in the doorway before you go and I stay, watching alone and waiting for the hard hit at the bottom of your well. Waiting for the soul-dulling pain that I love only because it's the only time I can feel. Remind me I'm alive. I'll take it and love it because I can. I'll ache and love you anyhow.

Swandive into the rosebushes, hoping for thorns to rip completely through. My metamorphosis from stranger to thief, quietly crafting, oppositely drafting. Kiss me gently across the street; I'm bitten at the curb. Consider me a novel unwritten, with constant tears in paper, down my face. Unstoppable water rips, hidden by gentle words and soft smiles, kind eyes and loving touches.

It's all my fault. I'd be different if I could. I'd set you afire, but the best I can do is softly flickering candles laid gently beside your bed, waiting with certain anticipation to be blown out. A gentle breeze from your lips kills me just the same.