“So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover’s eyes.“-Shakespeare, Sonnet 55
How many times have tapped keys cut the silent night seeking an immortality – because sonnets and scripts have a sorcery to them that hold sway beyond bloodlines brokered, beyond “I do” before God and man and here I find that my seeking has been done for me and my actions cut a path and a swath that signals out in the thumps of heart-throbs of every single jilted lover that I have longed for, abandoned, and been abandoned by.
M is for Misery: it dripped out her seduction, in every after-hour arbitration that had me driving desire out for days thereafter into the depths of despair. For Malice, for she was unrepentant even years thereafter, when two sobbing phone-calls in one week came: an apology and telling me of her current heartache – clearly love to her was just a game.
T is for Tempest: her winds were torrential, unobtainable, from the first to last and I was too young to understand and thought to pigeon-hole myself into the frame I thought she sought. Age has taught me something more than what she did, tucked away on Brooklyn side-streets steaming up my windows while waxing philosophical on just what infatuation was. I never got to tell her she was right.
L is for Lilacs, purple: she taught me that there were blooms in me after all when my buds had been badly bruised trying to break open – it seemed so long a wait but perhaps it should have been longer – for all the bruising it had harbored it didn’t stop me from breaking her blossoms on the wall.
R is for Revenge: her pursuit was unavoidable – how many times did I try to cut her off at the pass but upon me somehow her die had been cast. The aftermath was turbulent to say the least, that saw me beaten and full into retreat.
L is for Lingering: heartache had me harboring inside her for far too long, implying in her a feeling that I might therein belong. A song interrupted, started up, changed tune, faltered, wavering, made up as we went along. Somewhere in the hurly-burl the whole thing just trailed off.
H is for Habit: I accrued a bad one in Lingering and she was struck by my being stuck. If sickness in one’s self might make her well, as sucking in a chemical might “cure” withdrawal, she would be recovered. But the sting that I’d inflicted clearly didn’t teach me well because it is not the last time an uncaring blow on a lover fell.
D is for Dizziness: what a whirlwind, that teetered between Devotion and Dementia – how perplexing in the casting for her pleasure. How horribly I had acted in both abstract and in fact and if the thing I could retract how quick I would. But the tracks do yet remain and I dare not state her name still for the thing would make a wastrel of both her and I.
J is for Jester: how jovial I was, just pounding on the outskirts of her hallowed heartache harbor – to find it hollowed out and holding hard onto a harbinger before. What grief besieged me, pining for her pleasing, how playful teasing turned untoward and turbulent but then the joke has turned on me: for in her immortal’s doubled so I’ve come to see.
S is for Solace: she showed me how splendidly simple life could be. Casually conferring quiet desires that cowed to no one – we were what we were without any expectations, no deviations or deliberations, just deliverance when wanted and a parting when it came.
A is for Alabaster: perhaps she was Calcite when we began but I cut a wound with a knife I unknowingly knew I had. I was Hydrochloric and in the bubbling some transformation had unhatched: Gypsum she became and how easily she was scratched. She is unmatched – how I’m attached to her, storing and foraging within her for her cast perfumes, and looking to the pasts’ exhum’ and fearful in just what she’s found inside herself and how that might apply to dispensation of her wealth.
A is for Arrogance, not from her but I; who loved wholeheartedly but crushed it for another stuck up in my eye. Barbs that excised any way of kissing blindly e’r again; but somehow still finds within herself to yet be my friend. Cannot make amends but might learn from this turn of events, even the most loving can eventually end up spent.
There I am – immortalized in an alphabet that branded me uncaring, craven, cold, more than naught and wondering what lesson might be taught and I’m merely left with this:
I have been too careless – in overtures and bandied words, in sentiments and in seeking adoration: it has cast a shadow on my station, “…my reputation, O, I have lost my reputation…!,” with every standard deviation it has whittled down to this. But how I’d be remiss if I did not insist that I still believe in finding bliss!
Every tryst and every blister, every kiss up in this list here has been worth each sliver of jubilation, every accidental bruise;
I am sorry for the sorrow, and though it may still be there tomorrow,
there is no question here that I have lived and paid my dues –
so despite to see me painted might cast light to soul a’tainted,
still it’s fated that regardless as a poet I be true,
and when judgment comes from High I’ll take what’s coming for abuse.
As to the seeming skips in numbering this month, I’ll say this: I have been keeping up with writing every day but the contents of the missing poems are of a subtle nature that I ought not publicize – not for fear of my own feelings but another’s. It’s entirely one matter to paint myself as an asshole, as above, another to cast even a semblance of a shadow on someone else I care for immensely, and so they will continue to be withheld.