Heartbroken: Hellbent/Prayer for the Lonely

by admin on August 12, 2013

Heartbroken

Hellbent/Prayer for the Lonely

Sharp as an open wound packed with salt, the memory of you still surfaces despite my best efforts to not think of you. This is insane. I have forgotten the names of my best friends in junior high, the addresses of the numerous places I have lived in over the years, the names of the pets I have owned but somehow you stay in the forefront of my thoughts. How is that even possible? Without a doubt you occupy more space in my head than any other thought, making all others trivial in comparison. I find myself thinking of you in every face I see, every song I hear, every sound created carries your name in it. I’d rather be with you than with any other person on this earth. Alas, this last wish is but a dream, never to be recognized in reality.

I work more, as not to think of you, as if working more and sleeping less could destroy the image of you, the thought of you. I pick up extra shifts, working myself to the point of exhaustion. With sore limbs and heavy eyes, I work, too busy at times to conjure you up but inevitably, without fail, you appear in all your glory, making my efforts to forget you futile. There is not enough money or materialistic things in this life that would equal the value of a lifetime with you. No dollar amount can be placed on the time I long for with you; it’s priceless. Although my pockets may be lined, my house in order, my heart is not aligned, making work exactly what it is: work. I have become a drone; I do what is asked of me, I keep quiet and keep my head down, never faltering in my duties while the pain of missing you eats away slowly at my heart, one hour at a time. Unafraid of the consequences, not worried about the end result, I push on relentlessly, going through the motions of life yet not living it

I surround myself with materialistic things, as if they will ever fill the void of you not being in my life. Electronics ranging from flat screen televisions, IPods, headphones, Bluetooth, computers and an endless tangle of wires run throughout my life; jacking me into the media/social pool, hoping to eliminate my desire I have towards you, but they fail miserably. The more I become aware of other’s love lives, the stronger my wanting of you becomes. I envision us together with our own set of pictures posted on-line for the world to see. I see us in electric dreams and Wi-Fi fantasies, always together, inseparable. I long for the day where electric dreams become my all too real reality.

So what is the answer to the question of you? How can I live more? What shall I do? Please God, hear my prayer, my prayer to forget the heart that I once owned. In your name, I trust.

{ 0 comments }

To The One I Love: Pillow Talk

by admin on June 23, 2013

To The One I Love

Pillow Talk

You looked at me questioningly and asked, “Why do you love me?”, your eyes never leaving mine as we lay side by side, facing one another, basking in the mid-afternoon glow of the sun. With eyes expecting truth, demanding honesty, I answer with my heart open

“I love you for your intelligence, bringing to light the many things in life that went unnoticed by my eyes alone.”

“I love you for the warmth you bring to my life with just your presence alone, repairing my lonely existence with happiness unprecedented.”

“Your fabulous laughter. Even when you are absent, I can hear it, forcing me to giggle aloud no matter when or where I may be. This I may love above all your other attributes.”

You place a finger to my lips abruptly stopping me. A kiss of thankfulness follows and I close my eyes enjoying the silence, accepting your spontaneity.

“Continue, Love.”

“As you wish.”

“I will love you for life, dear. My heart belongs to you as it has from the beginning when I had the privilege of gazing upon your beauty. You had me then, you have me now. I am yours.”

You respond in kind with the five words that are the reason why I exist:

“My heart belongs to you.”

{ 1 comment }

To The One I Love: Cherish

by admin on May 2, 2013

To The One I Love

Cherish

In this moment…

Love embrace me

Keep me safe, protected within your bosom, diminishing my fears, keeping unwanted intruders from damaging me, hurting me in the early morning hours

Love feed me

Nourish me with acceptance, fatten me with hope, replenishing forever, sating my gluttony for you

Love, Love, Love break me of my wayward habits

Rehabilitating me for the better, counseling the will of life into my everyday being with the clarity of belonging as my drug of choice

Love inspire me

Expand my knowledge of the everyday things, bringing to light the once invisible, enriching, educating me, making me whole

O Love hear my prayer

I wish to burn in you, smothering me in your essence with a scorching desire unimaginable to this lonely man

O Love hear my prayer

In this moment…

{ 0 comments }

Heartbroken: My Valentine

by admin on February 13, 2013

Heartbroken

My Valentine

Where were you when I was carving out the foundation of love, my hands calloused over, my back ached from labor, sweat residing on my brow? Your help non-existent, your offer of labor not offered.

What depths were you willing to travel to secure our love? Could you hold the breath of love at such great levels or would you simply exhale upon first sign of troubled waters? No matter the depth, no matter the pressure that constrains and crushes, within these arms you were protected.

What sacrifices were you willing to endure? What suffering were you willing to tolerate to solidify our love? How much pain in the name of love have you sustained? I’ve bled copious amounts of time, tears and with wounds freshly packed with salt, I shall withstand more for you, for us.

My love, my sweet dear heart.

I envisioned our future, our lives intertwined by destiny and fate. Did you dream of this as well or had your design of us been flawed, distorted and blurred from the onset?

Alas, Missouri has left this man less than impressed with my heart out of alignment.

Missouri’s adopted son broken, unfixable.

I loved in Missouri.
I died in Missouri.

And now I am alone, alone as anyone can be in Missouri

Without you

{ 2 comments }

Women/Dating

Looking For Mrs. McCant Amongst the Guppies of the Jaded Sea

This is going to offend so if you are a woman and if any of this applies to you, I’m sorry. I’m sure we all have our opinions about anything and everything, be they right or wrong. This one happens to be mine.

I didn’t start officially dating until I was sixteen. Late by today’s standards and a little late back then as well. I used to be envious of all the other boys who would walk around with their girlfriends holding hands and sneaking kisses in between classes when the teachers weren’t looking in the hallways. When I did start to date and have a young lady on my arm, it was thrilling, exciting getting to know someone who like myself, was open-minded and optimistic about what we could offer one another along the lines of friendship and pleasure. I lived for the company of the one I was with, cherishing each moment as if it was our last. Talking on the telephone for hours at a time about everything and nothing, not necessarily talking the entire time, just listening to each other breathe sometimes was enough. We would have those cute little fights about who was going to hang up first. You remember those, don’t you? “You go first!” “No, you!” “You!” Ah, how I long for that innocence… Alas, those days are long gone, never to grace my life with their presence again.

Now in my autumn of years, the thrill of meeting someone has all but died off. Why you ask? Simple: I keep meeting women in flux. What I mean is the women that I meet all have been damaged, jaded or still have intense feelings for the last person who they were with and cannot possibly commit to someone new despite what they think; the last being particularly true of single mothers who still talk constantly about their ex. Nothing says “I’m not over you” more than bringing them up constantly as a main topic of conversation with the one you are currently with. I know that the older that one gets the more skeletons in their closet (particularly when you’re in your forties like yours truly), but damn, don’t bring out the entire cemetery on a brotha! I am not your counselor or am I qualified to help fight through your troubled past relationship problems so ladies, please, if you come across me and are halfway interested in getting to know me, please for the love of God leave your excess baggage at the airport. A purse or travel bag’s worth of drama is all I can handle at this time in my life, please and thank you.

Lord knows I have my own problems in the past with relationships (or as of late, a lack thereof) and with women and general but I try to leave those things behind when entering into a new union especially if I want to not die a miserable old man who writes terrible pieces of literature. Because of my knack of finding crushed women and becoming the “rebound guy” 75% of the time, I had to set some rules/parameters in order to stop the vicious cycle of hurt, rejection and all around waste of my time. These may solidify my single status for the rest of my life but if that means piece of mind, then so be it.

In no particular order…

1.)    If You Think That All Men Are Shit, Do Not Apply Within

I get it, I really do. I too have been hurt before in the past and for a moment I might think that I hate all women but I look at the bitch that did it to me and realize that it is just her and no one else to blame. Bottom line is I keep the blame on her and not on a whole gender. Food for thought or for some of you, an entire pantry. Not all men are the same; we’re not all out to take advantage of you or hurt you and when you’re alone watching the Oprah channel or Lifetime, eating your neighbor’s daughters Girl Scout cookies, wrapped in your favorite blanket, you’ll have no one to blame for your loneliness but yourself and your preconceived notions of the male species. The remote is right under your fat ass where you left it, Sweetie.

 

2.)    If You Are On Any Prescribed Anti Depression Medication or Consider Yourself Depressed, Keep It Moving

 

Fact: I too have felt depressed and sought out help through counseling or therapy (“Come on, Doc! Break me off some of that good shit!”) and nothing really helped. I was told that I need to find strength in myself or some other quack remedy which I totally ignored. One thing that I did actually listen to was that you will NEVER find happiness in someone else unless YOU are happy. So why is it that the most emotionally fucked up, drug -addled women always cross my path? They come with alcoholism, prescribed uppers (or for a select few, downers), flagrant illegal drug use, a pack of smokes a day…you name it. And what does my dumb ass do? Try to see past all of it but by the second or third week in, I’ve discovered I’m only an enabler, only making it hard on myself having to deal with their rollercoaster ride of emotions and constant drama. So if you’re crazy or just plain fucking psycho and you know it, keep it moving. I don’t want to be yet another “asshole” on your already growing lists while you remain perfect. Crazy bitch, keep it moving, psycho.

 

3.)    If You Have Kids And You Are Out At Two In The Morning Instead Of Home With Them, Adios

 

“The bar” is not going anywhere but your kids will be. They’ll be growing up without you, prone to make the same stupid mistakes as you did when you were their age (i.e. drugs, unwanted pregnancies, arrests, etc.). They will remember mom not being there or coming home late while they were sleeping, only to wake up looking like she crawled out from under a rock with an attitude to match. All for alcohol and the possibility of a sexual partner be they old or new. Not a good look. Secondly, I don’t want to be that guy who keeps mom out and always has her upset. It’s not my fault! Tell mom to keep her happy-go-lucky ass at home and be an adult. Been there, done that with these model “moms” and it sucks ass. If you’re looking for drama, date a woman with children who still live at home and you can produce your own soap opera for an Emmy this year.

I don’t know; maybe it’s me. I could very well be looking in all the wrong places. I’m not perfect by no stretch of the imagination and my standards have dropped significantly since I turned 40 (if you have a pulse, all your fingers and at least nine of your ten toes, I’m yours) but I still believe in love and want to be in it before I die at least one more time if not forever. So Mrs. McCant, if you’re out there (and you know that you are!) I’m waiting, half past eternity at the end of all time.

 

Waiting for something to snag my line before the tide rolls in,

 

Gregory E. McCant

 

 

 

 

{ 2 comments }

Two Years Later…

by admin on November 11, 2012

Happy Anniversary Gregory McCant.com!

It has now been officially two years since I’ve started on this little adventure and it’s taken me to places mentally that I’ve never dreamed possible. After reviewing last year’s body of work, I found it to be a bit darker and sadder than the year prior. I’m positive it has to do with the rollercoaster of emotions that I’ve been through lately (it’s been the worst year ever, something that I’ll go into greater detail with later) and an upheaving of everything which is familiar to me (okay, I can tell you this one, I moved). Although the details have become more vivid, the content matter is depressing as hell. This concerns me as I don’t want to scare off the few readers that I do happen to have. Hopefully, this year I’ll branch out of the darkness and embrace some lighter subjects. Don’t hold your breath.

I sometimes think this site serves as my on-line therapist. I write down my thoughts and thesis and I read them back and somehow my worries aren’t that severe anymore. Sounds crazy but whatever works, right? No pills, no therapists couch and a quack that charges me a hundred dollars an hour just to hear me bitch and moan; just reading and a rethinking of problems coupled with solutions. But that’s not where I want this site to go. I don’t want to make this a personal gripe forum for me publically, although it must feel that way to some of my visitors. No, I want it to be entertaining and informative whenever possible.

So this is my promise to you: more imagination and creativity. Period. Stay tuned and thank you for your time.

As the monster grows and matures at an astonishing rate,

Gregory E. McCant

{ 2 comments }

Inebriated Tales: Blue In Greg

by admin on October 22, 2012

Inebriated Tales

Blue In Greg

Man, the blues crept in unbeknownst to me, turning my sideways world upside down overnight. They took up residency without even asking and have stayed ever since. Motherfuckers ain’t even offered to pay rent! So it’s been me and the blues for as long as I can remember; the only constant thing in my life. I’ve had and lost money; easy come, easy go. I’ve been lonely; I’ve been loved, mostly lonely. I’ve had my highs and my lows but the blues have always been present, hiding around the corner, waiting to ambush me at the first given opportunity.

What do I mean by the blues, you ask? I’m talking about those hard blues: the ones that keep you up all night tossing and turning, making you tired in the morning even though your eyes were closed for hours. The ones that make you cry for the love that walked out of your life, never to return. The ones that have you perched on a barstool, head in hand, drink in the other, that cheap scotch whiskey burning the lining of your throat while Monk and Miles play in the background, essentially the soundtrack of your sadness. Its right around closing time as the stools go up around you and you are steadily trying to order another double while the bartender tells you no. Yeah, that’s what them hard blues cause you to do.

I know the blues. When you’re a day late and a dollar short on the rent, ducking the landlady and eating popcorn for dinner ‘cause that’s all you can afford. When you’re counting change from between the sofa cushions and underneath your car’s seats in order to get enough gas to get to work, if only for one more day. When the phone, lights and gas all get shut off in the same week, now you know that’s the blues!

Sometimes the blues curl up with me, spooning me in my bed, whispering tales of sorrow and woe in my ear, sweet syrupy words laced with arsenic and despair, bringing my spirits down even further, the way they like me to be. Sometimes they make me cry for no apparent reason at all; the floodgates open and I’m sobbing like a newborn, my eyes bloodshot red, my breath coming out in gasp and just as fast as it begins, it stops, just the blues way to remind me of the control they have over me and my life. Sometimes they drink with me, letting me buy and keeping their arm around me as I poison myself one ounce at a time. Most of the time, they just ride my shoulder like some pet, watching my every move and clinging on for the ride.

I would love to say that I am done with them but they are my companion for life. I honestly wouldn’t know what to do without the blues; it’s been so long. I don’t want them to think I’m rebelling or anything like that: no open acts of defiance here. The blues are like belching; a necessary evil. Or maybe more like a pain that I’m used to, never truly gone but I’ve learned to live with it after all these many years. Here’s to the blues and all of its friends. No worries, I’m buying.

{ 0 comments }

Inebriated Tales: Harrington Calls It a Night

by admin on October 4, 2012

Inebriated Tales

Harrington Calls It a Night

The beer taste like lukewarm piss and that’s putting it nicely. Not that I’m a connoisseur of piss or anything body waste related, it’s just that the color is the same and the semi-frosted glass isn’t working in its favor. I slam back the backwash swill, forcing it down in a large audible gulp, bang on the bar with my right hand in triumph and let out a mock groan of disgust once it lands in the pit of my stomach, keeping company the previous eight from earlier. I check the time on my watch and calculate the beer to minute ratio just for shit and giggles. Eight beers in an hour and a half; I’m slowing down as the years speed up on me. I used to drink faster and much more than that with a piggyback of shots to boot, but hey, who’s counting?

My hand is up in the air before I even realize it, impatiently waving over the bartender, Kelly, to fetch me another glass of piss. This time, hopefully it comes from the tap across from me and not the toilets in the back.

“Are you serious?” Kelly asks, an eyebrow cocked in exaggerated anger. A smirk forms in the right corner of her mouth, only making her cuter before she continues. “And here I thought you respected my position here.”

“Aw doll. You know I love ya.” I smile back at her, drinking in her tall slender frame. At five-foot seven with dirty blonde hair and dangerously smoldering brown eyes, she knew how to use every last inch of that body to her advantage. “Hit me up again, won’t you?”

“Now that’s better,” she says, turning around slowly but not before throwing me a wink over her shoulder. She the reaches into the cooler and pulls out a cold frosted glass, puts it up to the tap (Miller Lite, my daddy’s beer) and draws off another one for me. “This one’s on me, suga. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” More smiles are exchanged between us as she walks away catering to the other drunks and losers and I tilt back my head once the beer is to my lips, eager to continue my destructive binging.

Surprisingly, this one isn’t that bad. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I could still make out Kelly’s finger prints around the base of the glass. I purposefully place my fingers over them, imagining my hands in hers, her skin on mine. Yeah, right. Dream on, old man. Dream on. I laugh out loud, finishing half of the brew in one massive gulp, helping me to knock out such foolishness from my head. It works, and by the time I’m finished and ordering another, my buzz comes on strong, drowning out the jukeboxes’ blaring music and making the lights go all soft and hazy.

That’s it, I’m outta here. I feel my face go numb and hope others don’t notice how drunk I am. Kelly knows that face by now, the face she sees easily a hundred or more times during the week, especially on her shift: the look of defeat, of drunk, of inebriation. She brings my tab without even asking and offers to call me a cab, but she knows better than that. I’ve driven out of here almost blind and half insane courtesy of Sir Captain Morgan and his first mate, coke. She does this out of care and concern and she touches my heart. I take her hand within mine, letting her know I appreciate her looking out for me, reach into my back pocket with my free hand and pull out my wallet and throw down a fifty dollar bill on the bar.

“That’s way more than twenty percent, suga,” she says, not taking her eyes off the bill in front of her. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Only time will tell, young lady. Only time will tell.” She shoots me a look that could melt polar caps before taking the fifty and that body of hers back down to the other end of the bar, no doubt further fattening her pockets. One last pitiful stare and I am up and off the torn fabric of the barstool and headed out of the door but not before a few ‘alright man’s and ‘see ya’s are thrown out my way.

The parking lot is almost empty except for the vehicles belonging to the true soldiers: the professional alcoholics. They will be here long after I’m gone and depending on Kelly’s mood and tips, she may extend the usual time of two a.m.to three. My car is parked across the way from the bar to avoid the patrons who come out and have a tendency to piss and puke between the vehicles when they leave. Plus, I’ve made some enemies in my time and flattened tires along with keyed scratches don’t set well with me, so I take the extra thirty second walk for peace of mind. I almost face-plant about halfway across the lot but a quick honk from the F150 coming up on my right followed with an almost as loud “watch where you’re walking, motherfucker!” temporarily sobers me up enough to regain my balance. The passenger flips me the bird with both hands (ambidextrous little shit!), and then he and the driver peel off, screeching tires breaking the night’s silence.

I fumble for my keys, forgetting which pocket they’re in and when I find them, I can’t seem to find the lock on the door due to my diminished motor skills bought on by my high as hell B.A.C. After a minute of trial and error, it goes in; a flick of the wrist and success with opening. After cracking my head open on the frame getting in, I start her up, ignoring the wheezing and gasping of the maintenance ignored engine. I’ll have to get around to a tune up pretty soon before I find myself on the side of I-95 at some ungodly late night/early morning time calling for a tow. Finally turning over, I put her into drive ( I always park ass-end first in the event of a quick departure) and start to head out when a moment of clarity hits me and I drop her back into park again in order to put on my seatbelt. Dumbass. Its stupid moves like that that will guarantee my getting locked up. I buckle up and head out of the parking lot being sure to stay within the speed limit and use every turn signal. It’s a miracle but somehow I make it home in one piece and not pulled over or smeared across the streets as a reminder to others not to drink and drive.

The apartment letter on the front of my door, right below the keyhole is the same as my average grade in school, f. I’m not sure if it was because I was stupid or that I skipped a healthy portion of classes. Either way, it was the one defining grade I remember fondly. For a brief second a memory floods back at me. It was of me receiving yet another miserable report card and adding a small loop to the F’s on there with pencil, making them B’s before handing it to my mother. She saw right through it. Not only did I receive a beating from her with my daddy’s thickest leather belt doing a number on my rawhide, but I also learned the meaning of the word, alter. It literally had been beaten into me that afternoon and I have never used the word since.

I enter making sure to bolt the door behind me. Even drunk, I realize I’ll be an easy target once I pass out and I don’t live in the best of neighborhoods so why take the chances? I stumble pass the sofa and into my tiny bedroom, landing face first into the pillows. Ah, relief never felt so good! My eyes are closed before I hit the bed and they stay that way while the colors bleed and fade behind my eyelids. I wish I would have taken the time to at least taken off my pants; I would be that much more comfortable, but I’m home and safe so I can’t ask for anything more.

A loud and thundering pounding invades my drunken slumber and just when I think it’s going away, it starts up again, forcing me to open my eyes and raise my head slightly in agony. I hoped by doing this that it would go away, but no, the knocking continues. In fact, it grew louder once I swung my feet off the bed and sit up questioningly.

There is someone at my door. This is not a dream or the beginnings of a throbbing hangover. There is an actual person or persons knocking at my door at three in the morning, more than likely knowing that I am home. My adrenalin kicks in and I am up and reaching under the bed for the aluminum bat I purchased for such an occasion. It’s tapped end in my right hand reassures me that an ass whopping will ensue for the unlucky bastard on the other side of my door. I creep up slowly to the door and just as my eye peers through the peephole, the loudest knock yet erupts in my face and ears. I was expecting a big ugly goon, complete with a knife or bat of his own or worse, a gun. That was my first thought. My second was some jaded lover of old coming to vent about how I treated her so badly and what an asshole I was, am and forever will be but I wasn’t even close. I wasn’t even in the same ballpark.

“Kelly?”

“Harrington,” she says, relived that I am home, pissed that it took me so long to answer. “Yeah, it’s me, silly.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” It came out sounding harsher than I intended and I hope she realizes that it’s because I’m in shock. Drop dead women don’t come around me much; especially drop dead gorgeous ones at my door at three-something in the morning.

“You gonna keep yelling at me through the goddamn door or are you gonna let me in?” With my right eye to the peephole, I see her with her right hand on her hip, the other pointing at the door, frowning in disgust. I put the bat down against the corner behind the door than take off the five bolts and the chain on the door. Again, not the best neighborhood.

“About fucking time, Harrington,” she says, shooting me her best Billy Idol sneer and brushing past me as if I wasn’t there. I close my door and relock it just as my hangover reminds me that I’m still human. The knocking may have stopped but in my head my whole block is pounding to get in. “So this is where you live. Somehow, I’m not surprised.” This is said as she surveys my small but practical apartment.

“It does the trick. And you’re here because –“

But before I could finish, she has my wallet in her hand, creased and worn from the years of residing in my back pocket. It was originally dark, squid-ink black but over time has grown into a funky shade of dark grey with white blotches around the corners. All I can do is stare at it stupidly with an “is-that-mine?” look plastered on my mug.

“Yes, it’s yours,” smiling like she caught me doing something wrong. “Your drunk ass dropped it right next to your car. You’re lucky I’m an honest gal.” This she finishes with a wink and a slight shake of her hips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a loss for words. It’s kind of cute that I could have that effect on you after all these years.” She steps closer to me, close enough that I could smell the lingering of the cigarette she must have had before coming over mingled with the slight sweet smell of the French vanilla body spray she favors. I breathe in her essence, absorbing myself in her aura, breathing in her being. I close my eyes, savoring the affect she is having on me but then a quick jab in my ribs brings me back to reality. “Hey, don’t be gettin’ all passed out on me and shit. The least you can do is thank me, you big lug.”

“Thank you, Kel. You’re a hell of a gal.”

“I was expecting more than that, dumbass. You think I came all the way out to this shit part of town for a simple ‘thank you?’ You better guess again, fella.” And before I can give her a response, my wallet is dropped to the ground and an angel steps closer to me and grabs the back of my head with a force unimaginable from such a small frame and lays on me the biggest kiss I have ever felt in my life. It’s a kiss filled with fire, a kiss filled with passion; it’s everything I ever wanted from a woman’s kiss and then some. I kiss her back, half out if surprise, half out of sheer desire. I feel her tongue searching for mine and I reciprocate her advances by catching it between my lips and sucking on it hard. Her body presses into mine and I accept her fully, grabbing onto her hips and welcoming her into my embrace. I’m still in shock as I feel her arms lock in behind my neck and her pelvic region undulating against mine.

“Kell, I had no idea. Are you drunk or something?” I ask, not letting go of her, frightened that she may turn tail once she realizes who her lips and body are in contact with. But that’s not the case this early October morning. No, that’s far from the truth. She answers back with a mischievous, sexy grin and a hip thrust into mine that put all my fears to rest.

“I always wanted you. I find it hard to believe that Fate would have you leave your wallet for me to find. I know that there are signs and this, my dear, is a sign like a motherfucker. Now, are you going to accept this sign or argue against the inevitable?”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice.

Even in my drunken haze, I know a good thing when I see one and brother, this is an opportunity only afforded to someone like me once in a lifetime. I pick her up; our lips still locked and carry her to my bed, her legs hanging off my arms like socks on a clothes line hanging out to dry. I lay her down on the oldest queen sized mattress ever known to man and I climb on top of her, letting her feel my arousal through her pants and my jeans. “Are you going to keep a lady waiting all night, Harrington?”

That’s the last whole sentence we speak for the next two hours.

Our clothes come off effortlessly as we continue to kiss with our hands roaming over each other with an urgency I didn’t know I still possessed. We make love in the early morning with me on top of her, her on top of me, me behind her. At one point we climax together. She yells out someone else’s name but that doesn’t concern me. I am too far gone in the magic of Kelly, the warmth of Kelly to even bat an eye over it. We collapse in exhaustion, drenched in sweat and passion, clinging to each other as if we were the last two people on Earth. We fall asleep, legs and arms entwined, facing each other.

I awaken to the sound of a car alarm and a breaking of a bottle from the open window across from the bed, the ruckus coming directly from the alley five stories below. I worry that this might wake her but she is out like a light. I listen to the soft angel-like snores coming from her mouth and envy the way she can just knock out like that without the need of sleep aids or alcohol. I look over her shoulder to get the time off my dust covered alarm clock, taking caution as to not wake her. It’s a quarter past six and miraculously my hangover is nowhere in sight. This is a first and I look at it as a sign that maybe life isn’t so bad after all. Maybe after forty-something years on this mud ball of a planet God has decided to throw a bone to this old dog. Maybe I’ll be allotted some happiness if only just once before I croak. Maybe…

She starts to stir, raising her head an inch or so but keeps her eyes shut. “Harrington?”

Shhh, baby. Go back to sleep. I got you.”

“You got me. I like that.” A small smile touches the corners of her mouth but only for a second as she curls up closer to me, burying her face in my chest, sleep overtaking her once more. I hug an angel closer to me praying that God has somehow altered my future, at least for a day or the next few hours to come. Oh my God, I just used that word! I sound like my mother. Given the circumstances, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I kiss her forehead and close my eyes, letting myself relax in Heaven just as the morning sun rears its head, shimmering through the cracks of my blinds, filling my room and heart with warmth and light.

 

{ 1 comment }

Heartbroken: Cursed

by admin on September 19, 2012

Heartbroken

Cursed

Blurry, out of focus, my eyes strain to see through the thickness of eternal sadness

Silhouettes and shapes, phantoms and ghost of would be people parade around me

We take no notice of one another; just forms swirling among the masses, bound by loneliness, bound by pain, bound by sorrow

Aimlessly adrift, no destination charted, no plans laid out before me now that love has left me

Time ceases to exist, as I have nothing but time

Night becomes my ally as I curse the daylight and the false hope it brings

My heart, my poor heart, burdened with stress, fatigued from emotional duress, fragmented by heartache, never to be whole again

Unable to pump the blood of life through the collapsed veins within the shell of this man

My prayers for love ignored, I roam this world void of spirit, joining the others in solitude and suffering

{ 0 comments }

Heartbroken: Ache

by admin on August 22, 2012

Heartbroken

Ache

In misery, she lays alone, the night stretching out, time standing still, longing for the steward of her heart

With sorrow laden tears and heavy heart, she clenches her pillow between her arms, the weight against her bare breasts a mock substitute for the one not there, the one she loves

If he only knew, knew of her heart’s turmoil. Fragile, vulnerable in his absence, erratic palpitations, asthmatic breathing, making sleep all but impossible; the very idea nearly comical in her current state

The state of fleeting Love

The state of fleeting Joy

The four silent walls and ceiling offer no immediate counsel, as silent is their way

They only stare back, blank, unsympathetic to her feelings, mute in any response they may have had for her, their opinions never bought to light

By the glow of the clock’s emanating light, her face bathed in faint scarlet red, angels watch over her, comforting her as best they can

Until the elongated fingers of morning break through her window, ushering in yet another day without her love

{ 0 comments }