The pillows propped around me do not do your missing body justice.
Your absent fingers interlaced with mine haunt the hours without sleep;
the sweetest and most restful inside your arms,
cloaking drowsiness as your breath slowed on my neck.
Our love, fraught with such turmoil,
the lion within you struggling to yield, vulnerability laced with mistrust.
I adored the rare and raw glimpses in the dark because at daybreak your walls came up.
“I’m the catch!” I screamed in frustration!
I had my own walls to fight, even your blue eyes couldn’t penetrate.
Like kids on the playground, we played this game;
scared to be burned by the fire raging in our veins, igniting passions we couldn’t reconcile.
“The love of my life,” so innocently fell from my lips, and caught you off guard.
I had no idea it would become this hard.
As I sit and write, I am grateful to have had the chance to love and be loved;
under full moons and bright sandy suns.
Orgasmic tears that ripped open my relenting heart.
Thank you for smashing my pretensions and leaving unbearable ache,
to return with each phase of growth throughout the years.
You’ve taught me so much, the silence scabs wounds that refuse to heal.
While the pillows do not bring much comfort,
the soft sheets allow my body to feel less lost.
My mind drifts to sometimes dreams of us, and most times empty silent turmoil.
My Art of Becoming 