I shouldn't have written it; I shouldn't have told her.
but compulsion and self destruction guide me,
they always have, which is why I sit alone writing this.
I started to write her a love letter.
nobody writes them anymore.
how desolate have we become?
it started like this.
'I have tried to keep this locked away, not to tell you, not to expose myself, but you intoxicate me'.
wasn't my greatest opening line, for sure...love creates trash.
'a song plays in my head whenever we pass each other and you are the only reason why I put
one foot in front of the other these days.
you consume me reducing me to a quivering wreck and no one has ever done this....I am a street fighter, I am made of hard stuff....love is for the others...love is for the the better people.....love I read about and never write about...love is fear..'
I am never quite noticed. never quite there.
I operate under a radar
where poems are written by the undesired.
killing the unsaid.
and where nights are long.
I am Shirley Valentine.
'I have tried to keep it under control, I have avoided you, tried to resist the clawing deep in my soul...my rationality is skewed....I have written you 3 poems....I know...how trite....I spill here, on an a empty page, in an empty room...we are nothing more than passing strangers these days, such is my desire to fan these fucking flames.....do I sound like a cunt?....forgive me? you are making me high again, and I love it.
I was happy with this passage...more me...more needy...self deprecating...
'every film, book, song, play, that has touched my romantic soul, has led me to this moment...my gods don't sit on cuntish clouds....I'm guided by prose, by a lyric, by images, by awkward pauses. you are a song from a musical and this is a fact. I don't drink, my head is clear, I'm not a fraud.
I have reached deep to write this but my turn of phrase is limited. I'm a boy from south london...I have no art...but you define art..you, the personification of everything good in my fucked up head....just one look from those eyes crushes, heals, is a pill, 100 sessions with a shrink, shatters, cuts, and repairs again.....look at you..you're incredible and the reason I bother to write this shit.....where was I when you were looking? I love you and always will...I can't sleep, eat, function....'
she belongs to another, you see.
she is taken.
all the good ones are.
they're put here to fuck with my equilibrium.
'...my thoughts toward you have never been impure...I wish they were...a night in a seedy hotel would take care of this...it would be over, it would die, but this will never die...I am godless and yet I have found someone to worship, to muse, to adore, to finally kill me..'
our connection is palpable.
my desire for her is not carnal.
she has never been in my wank bank, so to speak.
sex would reduce her to 'just another woman.'
and it is to this end that I know I have fallen in love.
I have always told you I am cheap.
'...this is tough for me, it has ripped me apart, but despite this, I was a lesser man before you first walked in my path...part of me will die without you but a better part will live on....you are not an illusion and mine have not been shattered...you are precious, my a, b, and c...a reason to breathe, the answer to many questions, the lie I never told, the truth I found over coffee....'
violent words that did me no good
...few things ever have.
self preservation led me to this kiss goodbye.
to end the lullaby that has tormented my head.
she is the poem I had always wanted to write.
sadly though we are now nothing more than passing strangers.
tragic, yet poetic.
somehow I lost myself again.
© T.A.Roberts 2013