::imaginative introspection::

Imagine that all life is an illusion. All that exists is this moment. No past, no future, each memory, every plan, a part of the illusion. Life, in a photograph.

Do you like the image of yourself?

Monday, February 1, 2010

"Sometimes its as if the heart is torn from the chest"

the heart swells
it bursts
it bleeds

until the blood is gone

and still 

it aches
it needs

all that remains is darkness
abyss, void-- that escapes definition

where once you were, smiling, warm, 
where once you were, real, whole

where once skin 
would flush and lungs would 
gasp and lips would 
tremble at touch, no, thought--

the memory does not fade,
drifting away with time as some, ignorant of love, suggest
the pain does not dull into a slow constant throb, 
it is a constant stream of electricity that surges 
-with even the most minor of mental whisperings- 
of your presence. 

and yet
each day comes
again, with the sun
and goes, 
again, in the dark

and the sirens sound, 
racing off to another's pain

and the world- 

oh the world didn't stop just for us, no, 
only my world.

and each day brings the swelling, the bursting and bleeding and the constant electrifying
and each night, too, a new surge, stronger than each preceding, 
because this mind will not permit
will not permit the memory to fade.

because every moment of love, 
every flush 
and gasp 
and moment 
where trembling hands reached out to find you in the dark

was worth this lifetime of struggle 
to balance survival against the truth of losing you. 

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