My First KissIn it's excess, it had become a common thing. A sweet quick kiss on my lips by my sweet quiet lover. But the first, not sweet, never quick, filled with longing and lasting passion, will never leave the corners of my mind.
The car had stopped, parked in an auspicious place, far from any other; the engine halted, the rumbling ceased, and at last, the silence settled softly in between us. I felt his eyes on me, that was enough to render me speechless; it was enough for me to lose my breath and all but gasp for it. I suppose he felt my nervous quiver and touched my hand with his. I looked up at him, fearful now to look away, afraid, terrified that I had spooked him in some way but my awkward stare was greeted with a silly grin, one that I suspect had been on his face the whole time.
And it was then that my face creased into a smile as well. He leaned in towards me, slowly, gently, as if not to scare me; I parted my lips slightly and he enveloped me in a sweeping embrace, his searing lips a
CreativityCreativity no longer flows freely through me. I used to be a vessel, a messenger of it, and I can bring myself to only ask this:
Why has it abandoned me?
Is it because I have become a social butterfly, no longer cooped in my room, waiting for it's call, like the needy one in the relationship?
Is it because I claimed to have no fear of it leaving me?
Well, news flash, now that it has left me, I am very afraid.
I felt the need to fill myself with something else, something tangible, something substantial, but creativity, like God, is jealous.
There shall be no other love than for me; it's no wonder most writers are alone. But I refuse to be like Virginia Woolf, piling rocks in my cardigan and stepping into a lake.
I want to say that "If creativity wants nothing else to do with me, then so be it." But I can't because I am nothing without it. It completes me in a way that no man ever could. I would simply be an empty shell, blindly walking into walls.
A KeeperSo I found a keeper.
I found a keeper of my secrets,
A humble abode of my pain.
He doesn't ask for much
Only that I titillate him with my humor and wit.
That isn't too much to ask,
Especially for what I ask of him.
I ask to fill him with the knowledge of my sins,
My past regrets, and the battles I didn't win.
I ask him to believe these tales I tell,
Some true, most not.
I plead with him not to judge me,
Though I know that it is inevitable.
Just like it is inevitable for him to one day betray me,
Though I pray that day never comes,
I know it will.
But until then, his silence keeps me safe,
Shielding me from the harsh burning sun of reality.