Shakespeare Never Wrote About Us...
Everywhere I look, I see you. And when I seek respite and close my
eyes, I see you still. Empty memories haunt me...I
am scared to be alone now. Solitude is like an
unwelcome guest, parasitic and imposing, forcing me to
be it's reluctant host. I was always alone...except when I saw color where gray used to
be...that's when I was with you. But now you're
gone and the void that you left in your wake seems impossible to fill.
Nothing can sate it's hunger or quench it's thirst for
my suffering. I cannot seal it off, nor can I seal myself off from it's
dark vacuum. The passage of
time that promised to rebuild me once my heart forgot
the truancy of yours resonates a familiar betrayal. I drown in an ever deepening sea of
foreboding and regret, at once looking ahead at the ominous clouds of love
lost while looking back at my former selves in the rear view
mirror...wondering where all the other people
are. There was only you, Tanya. You filled the
monochromatic shades of my existence with meaning and color.
But look at me now. I am but a fractured, fraction of the man I
transformed into every beautiful time we touched. As
you walked away your invisible chained hooks ripped
away my better parts...my gaping sores weep anew, as
if just gouged. I am a distant memory, and a host to
many more. You twisted and contorted my universe
to go seek out what you already had...but maliciously
chose to destroy. ...and still I admit that without you my heart physically
aches in my tired, heavy chest. Less torture would
befall me if you'd grabbed a blade and run me
through...the sting would've lasted but a moment...and
if you'd be so kind as to hold it outright with a firm
grasp, I'd willingly exchange my resolve for yours and
slide down upon it. And if you think you're so brave as to not feign a second
thought, prove to me now woman that your treacherous heart is
truly black and do not break your eyes from mine until your first tear can be held no more
and my last breath cannot either. Hold back
your guttural whimpers...indulge a dying man and tell
me: who else do you presume will ever love you so
much...who do you presume, notwithstanding an eccentric
on Shakespeare's parchment, has ever loved ANYONE...so
much? What, my love? I cannot hear you...only the
velvet on your lips can I see, but no words pass them
by...what did Shakespeare know of love anyway, my dear? He never wrote about us...
Copyright © James Fay | Year Posted 2008
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