To Stumble Upon Sentiment

My heart beat; the breathing bellows  to my fire. My blood; the trickling waterfall to my lake. My lungs absorbing the universe that I ignore. Neglect is a special skill  of mine. How can I love  another body when I run mine dry. How can I let the kindle burn to ash. Let the air turn stale inside me. Let my hair  lose its shine - my nails break. The rhythm of my heart become merely a whisper. Beating, begging, tapping at my chest; “Let me out, Let me breathe, Let me flow again.”

I adore the smell of the rain. Not the rain itself, per say. but what it touches, makes transparent. Makes glimmer with a liquid coat, like  resin, preserved for a second, until all melts and shrinks to paste and gives way to the warmth of the rain. Foliage, once dry and cracked,  discarded, now a river of orange and brown, all together emitting reams up reams of that sweet smell of wet ground. And never do I stop to think, if I smell the oak, the maple, the pine. Under the affections of the downpour, all is as sweet as nectar as bold as wine.

"Someone is coming; look busy", she whispered palm affectionately cupping my left ear, arm wound around my waist tracing my hip bone. If I knew no better, I might have thought that she loved me. But seduction is her weapon of choice -  intimacy the rug she pulls away when I've found my footing in a world of things and events and places, with people to see and adventures to be had and so so much "to live for"...

The body is a barrier, opaque, impermeable, seven layers of skin wrapped around soft innards, blood, vessels, organs. And when I reach down my throat, grasp for my own heart, I come up empty, like it wriggled and slipped from my claws. As if my nails had been coated in my own juices, the saliva of my gluttony and the blood of my wrath. But there was no other games to play -  none that mattered, anyway.

To the mountains I crawl strapped up, laces tied, civilisation heavy on my shoulders and my eyes downcast waiting. Silent waiting; careful waiting, patient, no, anticipatory waiting, for the winds to carry that weight away. To the trees I lean for love and comfort -  for their strength, petulant to shed my heavy passenger...

Nothing is soft through and through, free of that hard, chewy exterior, that protective layer browned slight. But we chop away, disregard, cast aside for hidden charm, of rot and indignity and dismay. We don't chew or pull or bite but consume meals lite, with the edges cut, the plate undone, dismantled - incomplete. For it adds flavour to what is plain - adds beauty to the pain.

You asked me to hold your hand, hover it over the right piece of the puzzle and plant it there. To gather together the shards of my withered mind, of my scattered consciousness, and put it in a box. And I adorn the box with a bow red and voluptuous, for you to pull and untangle and mangle in your excitement. I know your gaze is soft, your voice pleasant, your heart pure as a boy’s, so I try to give you this gift...

I present my gratitude in cupped hands, fingers tightly interlocked to stop it dripping out, running down my forearm, and dropping from my elbow in a slow, gentle, rhythm. I scooped it up this morning from the pool within me. Knelt down in the dirt - naked - and filled my affectionate palms. Filled them with warm waters of flittering memories and half-grasped emotions...

I hack my self out whenever I open my lips wide enough to speak. Her ghostly frame, silent as she falls and tries to climb  back in,  but my mouth is full of words. Full of menial phrases and half-forgotten sentences and false promises. I wield them like a sword against my lowly self, scrambling in my wake...

Take me  And feed me  to the snowbells resilient and clean. Take me And feed me To the oak tree who’s strength I foresee. Take my essence And scatter me to the winds  so I can fly as far as  the eye can see. And I’ll mourn my humanity now so when you come for me I’ll give my hand, willingly.