The sadness carried, #227

The sadness I carry
in a dark place
in my heart is
my heart. The sadness
that left an imprint
like a dying muscle
one can feel all
the way down their
dying arm and out
into their tingly fingers
is nothing more than
her long absent fingers.
Remember, in the past
days when the days
would pass by slowly
and without a thought
would lead you back
to the lost thoughts
of her. The sadness
anyone carries is not
for the few moments
when we were less
than the super hero
we would like to
be in those moments,
the sadness is for
the moments we were
all we could be
and it was still
not enough. The sadness
I carry is thick
like the river silt
or the air on
the worst summer days.

The sadness I carry
is an old technology,
outdated and with no
known players still left
in existence. I know
if I wake up
one day and forget
to press play it
will begin to degrade,
start to fade out
like the old tapes
I’ve packed in boxes
right now being eaten
by time. How much
I would miss seeing
your face, even though
you have long ago
left me for some
other life, have grown
and changed and now
look almost nothing like
the one I loved
and who I keep
an old photograph of
tucked just behind my
eyes. Do you hear
me in the morning
wake and stretch out
memories to keep them
limber, keep them fresh,
to keep you warm
in my dying mind?

In a dark place
I’ve told no one
about, shown to none
of my friend, not
to my lover, apartment
where I bent down
to sit just beneath
your feet and massage
a moment to my
advantage, in this place
I left my keys
or maybe my wallet,
my light summer jacket
just under the sofa
so I would have
to return there someday.
You are not there
anymore. The sign outside
says condemned or sold
or please do not
return here. Under new
management. But my wallet
that held my emotional
center, the little card
that allowed me tears
at discount prices, rage
from the bargain basement,
laughter on clearance sale,
that card is gone
now, left beneath something
that no longer exists.
Here, I feel nothing.

In my heart is
what’s left, the muscle
and blood my ancestors
handed down to me,
the deep red anguish
of old lost friends
and of dead parents,
a buildup of plague
left behind by all
the bad-for-you
cuisine and awful books
I have read, digested,
used to build up
this body of knowledge
of cheap new age
spirituality, of pop psychology,
of quick fixes for
life’s long unending challenges.
I could have built
this heart up on
fresh fruits, pears, apples,
they were all around
growing up. I could
have built it up
on beef and fish.
We lived near there.
But the convenient store
was closer and cheaper
and took less effort.
I built this body
and my cheap love
on cheap fast treats.

My heart. The sadness
I carry for too
many women, for too
often loving the ones
who would not, who
could not love me
due to their own
hang ups, their own
cheap convenience and family
upbringing, the bad timing
that seems to follow
me. Here’s my heart
laid out for service,
to sit at feet
and open its ventricles
to let in blood
and oxygen, to carry
off waste and anger.
Here’s my heart like
a soldier holding his
own hand on top
of the wound, trying
to keep his guts
in. But they seep
out onto the ground,
or in my case
onto this cold page.
I carry you with
me like laugh lines
on my face, scowl
on my brow, that
line that betrays me.

That left an imprint,
that one last night
when at two a.m.
I thought maybe my
skills as an orator
or as a masseuse,
as a modern day
Dante might be able
to convince your heart
to finally listen up
and to agree, we
were meant to be,
in some universe, on
some planet, by design
or by accident, meant
to be these lovers.
Yet, after that night
nothing else grew up.
The heart that beats
in my chest, that
beats constant and hollow
just to hold you,
or to speak more
correctly, to still hold
an image of you,
my lone left image
of you, that heart
is a tired muscle
hoping for an attack
that will leave some
or most of it dead,
to then forget you.

Like a dying muscle
that has no hope
of being raised up
in seance, all that
one can feel all
the anger we muster
and the sadness, all
the way down our
dying arms and out
into our tingly fingers
is nothing more than
those long absent fingers.
Remember, in the past
days when the days
would pass by slowly
and without a thought
would lead us back
to those lost thoughts,
our mind’s stark remembrance
of her. The sadness
anyone carries is not
for the few moments
when we were less
than the super hero
we would all like
in those few moments,
the sadness is for
the moments we were
all we could be
and it was still
not enough. The sadness
I carry is thick
like the river silt.

Advertisements

Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s