POEM for JER
By R. B. STUART
Post Forty-Three
By R. B. STUART
Post Forty-Three
"I miss your face...kissing it, stroking it, admiring it. Not seeing it I feel so out of place.
I become excited like a puppy when I arrive home from work. Walking past your house with Froggy, I whistle hoping to elicit a brief hug, or a whisper of love through the window, I lurk.
We don't have the typical relationship; Your decrepit mother and my senior dog have a tight grip.
Without speaking at the end of the day, or seeing one another and having dinner each night, nor nestle against the other in bed to sleep tight.
We steal glimpses of each other when we can. Hold hands and sneak a kiss on the run, and a firm squeeze of the bum.
Our love and devotion must be strong enough, to power through the days and nights that don't belong to us.
Hoping, if we survive these limitations, then we'll finally be at home endulging in canoodling and lust. Which leaves them alone to sit in the dust.
But until then my passion, love and desire becomes riddled with anxiety, as I try to contain all the things I want to say with each passing day.
Clutching the burlap bag slung over my shoulder bulging with everything I needed to share, becomes too heavy, jumbled and too cumbersome to bare.
And it is replaced by frustration, stick notes and texts to myself, of things I wanted to tell you or how I felt.
Pent up...the bag bursts...everything has lost it's importance and momentum as the days click by, resulting in hurts.
Like a scavenger, I swoop up the remnants hoping to weave them together. But alas, there's not enough time when you're in my arms and the world is as light as a feather.
In haste, our communication becomes twisted, anger erupts, and we have flatlined, shucking it all in an overnight case.
We never know, if we are mighty enough, bonded enough, or tough enough to go with the flow.
Then we're left standing back to back, unable to find the minutes to face one another, gives way to another split and then crack.
Wondering if this time will be the last...Can we recoup, or just become one anothers past.
And like a Weeping Willow, tears dripping from her leaves, a new dawn wakens with much un-cer-tain-ty.
My breast is dewy, my heart throbs with need, my mind wants it all, albeit, ignoring the greed.
My complicated man does what he can. Striking a chord he sings when he's bored.
The darkened sky settles her broken body into a chair. As he pretends he just doesn't care.
Casting off the dutiful son, he slips into a long legged, strapping man and inches his way back, towards folly and fun.
His pretty baby forgets she's a lady. Dissapaiting the confusion, he dives deep into my waters dropping the anchor, recessitating our fusion.
Only a handful of hours and you've planted the seed. The clock captures your Soul and I must let you leave.
Back into her house, you'll walk as tenderly as a mouse. A few verbal jabs, she spars, and reduces my Viking to a louse.
I offer up Grace, my Lover betwixt marking his space.
His mind boiled and bruised, she ignites a short fuse. The holes in his screen cloakes the morning blues.
The smoke dissapates, any anger and hate. Hours spent wallowing in and out of fate.
His heart wanders to the longing of my sweet nectar. Pollinating our honey, it is he who wins the trifecta."
--R. B. STUART
Copyright 2 July 2019
Santa Monica
