Buy me a drink?

“So, what is it?  What’s got you staring at me across the room without a word to say until now?”

Oona took a sip from her drink as she waited for the man’s answer.

They had been bantering for a short while.  She approached him and asked if he minded some company.  He didn’t object.  Men usually don’t when she approaches them, although it is a rare occurrence.

The conversation was odd to her.  There were no pleasantries or introductions.  No attempt was made inquiring on her availability or current activities, but at the same time he was pleasant and inviting.  He seemed to enjoy her company and was quick with a response to anything she said.

“I’d venture to guess you’re used to men staring at you,” he smiled and hovered his drink below his  lips.

“I am,” she smiled with her lips on her glass.

“And often, I’m sure, they’ve lost to ability to form words.”

Oona raised her glass and nodded slightly before resting it on the table.

“But I don’t care about them.  I want to know about you.  The man who has yet to introduce himself.  The man who doesn’t make eye contact the entire time, but not because he’s shy but because he’s somewhat over confident.  The man who has yet to offer me another drink, a night cap in his room or breakfast the next morning.  I want to know something about this man, in particular.”

He nodded and smiled as he rested his drink next to hers, “and if he answers that you’ll have to tell him what brought you over here to sit next to that man and carry on a conversation with him for this long.  He doesn’t think that happens often with you.”

“He’s right, it doesn’t.  And she might answer that, if his answer is intriguing enough.”

The man smiled and dipped his head slightly in a soft laugh to himself.  He shifted his weight and position so it was facing her in an engaging way.  His left knee bent and resting on the couch with his left arm leaning over the back of it.

“This man.  Me.  I’ve been here a few nights this week actually.  The first night was Tuesday.  On Tuesday I sat over there,” he pointed to a table in the corner of the lounge against the wall.

“And while I was sitting over there on Tuesday around 10, I noticed a beautiful woman come in and sit down at the bar.  She ordered a drink and had conversations with the men sitting next to her and the bartender.  She had a roaring laugh.  She was captivating and I tried my hardest to keep my eyes from burning a hole in her dress.”

He picked up his drink and threw back a quick gulp of whatever liquid remained in it and rested the glass on his knee.

“On Wednesday night I took up the same seat at the same table.  Partially out of my penchant for not wanting to be noticed, and partially out of superstition.”

“Superstition for what?”  Oona asked.

“Whether she would come back or not the next night.”

“Did she,” she smiled at him and leaned forward slightly as if he were telling her a secret.

“She did.  She absolutely did.  My budding obsession wasn’t helped any either.  That night she was wearing a red dress that was made from material which was close relatives of some of my favorite lingerie pieces.  She looked as if she had come back from a fancy art gala or awards ceremony.  Only there was a problem,” he lowered his head and leaned into her lean and played on her whisper receiving position.

“What was it?”  Her voice played along, almost by accident.

“She didn’t sit at the bar.  I couldn’t see her after she walked in.  Being a man who doesn’t like commotion and being noticed I thought that getting up to move to have better viewing of this goddess of a woman would be too much, so I accepted my fate and took the glance that I was given and turned in early that night.”

“Poor you.  That must have devastated you, not being able to ogle her all night again,” Oona’s voice was mockingly sympathetic.

“I was crushed,” he nodded back, “but I survived.  Although it took an extra day to feed the survival.  My Thursday did not lend itself to ogling and I was unable to look upon this beauty for the third day in the row.  I had to wait until Friday to see her again and she did not disappoint.”

“Was she dressed in a royal gown, tiara while brandishing a scepter this time?”  Oona tilted her head in a crook while staring into his eyes.

“No, no.  She in a skirt, a blouse and some elegant heels with her hair done in a tight and professional manner.  A business woman, a princess and bawdy laughter.  She was a dream.  I took this couch on Friday night, the one we’re sitting on right now.  It has a better view of the entire lounge and, if she were so concerned, it seems a bit more inviting than a table in the corner.”

“True.  Pretty girls aren’t drawn to dark tables in corners with men they’ve never met.”

“Her demeanor was more reserved last night, Friday night.  She seemed tired.  Perhaps from the day.  Maybe from the week.  Her smile was still bright but she was subdued.”

“Poor soul.”

“She seemed to fair well.”

“No, I meant you,” Oona placed her hand on his knee, “you waited an entire extra night to see her and she wasn’t putting on her show for you.  It must have been tragically disappointing.”

The man smiled at her and bit his lower lip.  He shook his head and then looked Oona in the eyes.

“I survived.”

“Again?”

He nodded, laughing softly to himself once more, “again.”

She stared at him, waiting for the story to finish.

“So, she never joined me.  I don’t believe we exchanged a glance at all really.  She left early that night and I did shortly after her.  Which brings us to tonight.”

“Which brings us to tonight,” she repeated.

“What time is it?”

Oona pulled her phone from her purse to check, “nearly midnight.”

The man pointed at the bar, “do you see the woman with the blonde hair in the black dress?”

Oona turned to look at the bar and noticed a beautiful woman sitting at the bar carrying on a conversation with two men, one on either side of her.

“She came in at nearly the same time you did.  I watched you both sit down and order drinks.  I watched you both get comfortable and carry on with whatever purposes you have being here.  I watched you both, carefully, for about fifteen minutes when my initial intention was to stare at this blonde woman at the bar for the entirety of my night.  As time went on my attention turned more and more to you.  Your dark hair and your green dress.  Your blue eyes and your red lips.”

He paused and stared at her for a moment.  He was waiting for a reaction.  She didn’t want to give him one because if she spoke she might have cracked.

“Mmhmm?”  This was all she could muster, with a slight head nod.

“I’m not comparing you two woman.  You’re both beautiful.  Stunning in your own way.  I don’t find her any less enthralling tonight then I did the previous nights.  But you, you make me want to let you notice me.”

Oona cleared her throat, “and then what?”

“I’d ask you to be my muse.”

“What does that mean?”  She shook her head gently.

“To let me stare at you and your beauty.  To let me use the inspiration you stir in me to create my own beauty with words.  To embody every passionate, lust-filled, craving of your sexuality in each drop of ink I spill.  To immortalize you as desire.”

Oona didn’t know what to say.  She wasn’t sure how to respond to something so intense and personal.  All she could do was stare at him with her hand still on his knee and try to keep her lip from quivering.

“I’m sorry if that answer was a little forward.   I hope it was intriguing enough though,” he smiled again.

“Intriguing enough for what?”

“For you to tell me what brought you over here.”

“Oh,” she laughed a little to herself, “I was just hoping you would buy me a drink and I’d see where it went from there.”

“How’s it going then?”

“A little awkward now,” she gave a tight lipped grin while holding her empty glass.

“Is it?  Is that a no to my question then?”

“What question was that?”

“Would you be my muse?”

“What is it I have to do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he took her hand in his and stared in her eyes, “just be yourself and let me witness it.”

 

I saw your ghost again

I can’t remember what attraction looked like before your eyes.

I’m haunted by you.

Your lips. Your stare. Your everything.

I can only see you. I think this may be how I serve my sentence. In love with someone who is in everyone, but never her.

A sweet kind of sickness

It’s sticky and we can’t resist it.  It’s sweet and we need another taste.  Some sicknesses you don’t recover from, they merely go dormant.  Then you have that craving crawl up your throat and through your fingers until you have to feed it.  It isn’t pretty, it’s an addiction.

I’ve been trapped in honey.  I’ve been swallowed by the night.
Cleaning memories from my mind is pointless.  The honey is too thick.  The night is too deep.  I can’t come back from that.

So we indulge ourselves.  We try to live for the better and say we’re over it.  The sickness doesn’t show any signs at all, until you taste the softest sweetness and want to be consumed.  Until you see the darkest nothing and want it too surround you.

I’ve got it at arm’s length.  It’s biting and gnashing its teeth.  I can feel it’s breath, heavy on my skin.  I want to let go.  I want to drown.  Tell me not to let go.  She’s not there.  Tell me she’s not there.

There is no sleep that is peaceful

The sirens are blaring.  They cut through the night and hit as if you were their only target.  It would be painful if it wasn’t terrifying.  The sound ripping through the air.  Jolting you from sleep as it gets louder.  Louder.  LOUDER.  Then fading off only to come back to torture you again.

Sometimes it stops.  When the threat is gone and people can go back to their normal lives as if they hadn’t been shaken to their knees.
Sometimes its only a warning.  A drill.  A cruel joke being played on everyone to ensure they know what to do when their lives are in real danger.  The drills are only ever set during the day though, in the light hours.  If the siren goes off when the sky is dark the scramble to survive sets in.

The sirens are sounding, still.  You can hear the commotion in the streets.  The screaming and yelling.

“Move!  Now!”

“Go!  We have to go!”

“Leave it!  Shoes, clothes, bags on your back and move!”

Children screaming.  Crying for a fear that they don’t know.  Parents heart’s racing for one they know too well.

The sirens continue without pause.  A streak of light screams through the air and everything stops.  Everything moves in slow motion as the flaming ball of light disappears behind the hills.  It’s followed by a rumble.  The ground is shaking.  The hills are on fire and the night sky is melting.

The sirens keep blaring.  This is not a drill.  They are coming.

Insta-girl

I said your eyes were blue, but they’re green.  It’s hard to tell from pictures, but I guess that damn Elton John stuff matters sometimes.  No excuses though.

Your eye lashes looked amazing though, until you laughed and said that was a filter.  A filter?  Fuck.  At least I didn’t compliment the dog ears or the way your eyes sprayed sparkles whenever you blinked.

I wished we could have been one of those couples that saves each other’s picture as the home or lock screen on their phone.  I think it’s sweet.  I would have defended it to every neanderthal-bro that made whipping sounds.  My girl’s my girl and I don’t care what other people think.

The next time you take a selfie don’t use any filters.  I like the way your face looks naturally.  A normal picture with a smile, and those blue or green eyes.

Wander

I want the night.  I want the unknown.  I want the mystery.

I don’t want to know whats coming next, as long as I know its something different.  A twist.  A curve.  An unkempt path.

Let the brush and branches be in my way.  Let me move over rocks and logs.  My steps won’t be as reckless as the road I’ll walk.

Give it all to me and I’ll be happy as long as I’m not spinning in this chair looking at these four walls.  If the trees and the sky have different faces, I’ll smile.  If the night never sounds familiar again, I’ll keep walking.

I want to experience each morning, this and every other.

Wasted nights

I’m drunk on stupidity.

A drunken man falling over himself because he couldn’t keep control is no different in alcohol than any other vice, simply less graceful.

Sabotage, gluttony, self-pity and the constant distraction from the unknown, they each hold their price and conspire together to trip me up.  I fall for it every time too.

I’ve spent precious moments banging my head against the wall rather than coloring in the cracks to make it less obscene.  Now I’m trying to save face by being pretentious and this is all garbage.

I can write.  I know damn well I can write.

She made me love her.  I didn’t want to, but I ended up doing it out of stubbornness.  She tricked me.  She told me she never wanted someone, she wanted everyone.  My ego caused me to take the challenge to be all of it for her.  And I was, for a short while.  I was until I wasn’t, but it stayed deep inside of me.  The time that I was couldn’t be expelled because her magic was too strong and it wrapped itself in the chords of my soul.  I can still feel them being plucked by her fingers.

So fuck it all.  Fuck the night.  Fuck the stupidity.  Fuck the distractions.  Most importantly, fuck myself for letting it all get in the way.

Too may wasted nights are spent banging my head against the wall.  The cracks should be vibrantly colored by now.

Excerpt from nothing: Mayhem

“You were the burning mountains.  You were the dried seas.  You were everything I never wanted to witness in my life.  You are destruction,” Kilth pointed at her and spit the poisonous words.

His stare could melt steel, yet she was made of wind.

“I am nothing.  I didn’t burn the mountains.  I didn’t dry the sea.  It was not the destruction you witnessed.  It was the birth of mayhem,” Viol spoke to Kilth in a calm and pleading voice, trying to make him understand her balance.

“The mountains did not burn, they were saved.  A wall of fire to distract from impurity.  The seas did not dry, they were emptied so they could fill again without dilution.  Our world could not continue as it was, so I will start it over.”

“You will end everything!  There will be nothing to start over.  It will all be gone.  Me, you, everyone!”

“We had our chance and we failed.  If life is going to continue, we cannot be a part of it, they cannot be a part of it.  I’m sorry, I tried.  I couldn’t anymore.”

Viol’s body heated and the layers around her disintegrated until she became a white flame.  She hovered in the air and her form flicked sparks to the ground below.  Kilth could only watch and yell, begging for her to stop.  If his pleas reached her, she did not heed them.

She pulled her arms and legs in until she was a ball.  The intensity of her flame increased and the space around her began to glow in a deep blue.  The last words in the world that were spoken were from Kilth, in a whisper to Viol, “I’m sorry too.”

*****

When the world stops being everything created stops as well, the physical and immaterial.  Nothing matters anymore as there isn’t anything to impact upon it.  Time, essentially, stops if there is nobody there to track it.

Viol’s collapse stopped time.  Silence became the only sound after her shriek.  When she flung her arms and legs to let loose her cataclysm everything else ended with her.  The mountains and the sea.  The sky and the grass.  It was blinked away in a flash of white light.  She didn’t know her power.  She didn’t realize that not only would her flame destroy all life on her planet, but it would destroy all possibility of life.

Or maybe she did know that.  She sacrificed herself and every other person on her planet, it included, to start over.  Not just the Gaia but everything, and from everything Viol decided it would begin again with her at the center.  Her flame burst into space and became the beginnings of a new star which would create a new solar system around her.  She would destroy everything to reset the clock with her essence flowing through each particle that makes each new world.

 

Avalon

We love things for reasons we don’t often know.  Sounds, smells and tastes, they all soak into our skin and become a part of how we live.  The places that give us the most comfort have an ambiance that echoes our loves.  The clattering of plates and murmur of voices while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air does it for some.  Others find themselves at peace under the sun with birds chirping and stillness in the air.  The beach, the city at night, the streets after it rains, they all are favorites for many different people who are more alike then they know.

For me though, I never had a place that gave me calm yet filled me with life.  For me it was different things that could never balance themselves out to perfect symmetry.  A rose alive in a dark room whispering from the shadows.  Rain to glass among howling wind on a mid-morning Tuesday.  They would come to say hello once or twice a year, but I didn’t know them very well.

It wasn’t until I met you that I thought I could have a place like everyone else had.  A comfort.  Tranquility.  You were the smell of sweet citrus in the summer.  Sticky and running down your chin from a voracious bite.  I’d lick the acidic sweetness from your lips and grow it to a kiss of tongues and heavy breaths.
After our bodies were peeled of any clothing and our colorful skin bare, ready for teeth to taste the juices inside, you became music to soothe me.  The arch of your hips and your breast curved like an instrument.  The plucking pizzicato of sensitive strings made you sing.  Your leg bowed around my back, creating music in me as you drew it across my flesh.  Our vibrations humming in pictured beauty.

That is what you are, what you were.  My sanctuary.  My garden.
You were my nature.  You were my music.
The hard winds that erode the cliffs.  The fierce waves that crash against the rocks.

You were growth.  You were life.  You were more than love.