I gaze at the fire
I am reminded of your eyes
When we walked through the flame
When your spark met mine
An Enigma that I would unravel
Between my arms
Between your legs
We masqueraded around as friends
Instead of the lovers we wanted to be
Now I am stuck here thinking of you constantly
Dear Reader, this poem is something that I have been thinking about. A woman that I have longed for since I met her. Although we became entangled by passion, we never got the chance to go further than that. I have always wanted to share my affections for her, and at times I do. But it all seems to futile at times.
The wandering eyes
Pass me by
Last grain of sand
I’m reflected in glass
Each hour that is past
Hanging there in emptiness
Where is the edge?
Did I forget?
Preoccupied with regret
Remembering what’s left
Brief silver lining
It’s Hard enough the world is grey with simul-overcast brief investigations between the air Constant reverberations we share Time elapsing; equivilant exchange Equally present as we are never here to start Passing through with inention without the suffocation of force
writing… re-writing an endless gaze of infinite possibility heard and discussed with the endless fortune of dirt and dust proximate understanding Knowledge at my finger tips apprehensive aware awkward Certainly human if nothing else.
There are a lot of varieties of food out there and to be honest, there are a lot of attempts at making them taste good. When that falls through, I’ve always fallen back on my trusty Hot Sauce that I specifically carried for the purpose of spicing up any meal that I came across when on the road:
its like finding that one position in your lovers arms that is just too perfect and comfortable that you can’t let go. The warm embrace that lead to so many nights of bliss and wonder. The feeling of knowing that there is so much more that needs to be understood. Discovered. Each time, reaching the edge of what is bearable, only to find that there is just a little bit further that I can go.\
The way that it wraps around my tongue. The way that it makes my chemicals react. It is living fire.
The space between the tangible and the utter memory of what existed, with such heat and passion. The very essence of perspective among the universe given in moments and taken in seconds. Expressing permanence through brief sensations and then gone once again. A fatal memory. The anguish of loss. The doldrum of the future pressing on the fading day’s last rays of sun. The tears well in my eyes.
Now, life’s only purpose seems to be reflecting on that time. That one moment when I’m wishing for something more. Something hotter. Something longer. A perfect blend of taste that lasts on the pallet. Instinctively primal and burning. My savory savior. The hot pepper. Brilliant in design, unique and misunderstood. Accepted by those who realize the magnitude of their characteristics. Their personalities. Influencing whole cultures of cuisine. Saving the dull tastes of free food at the park for decades.
So I’m growing a patch of peppers specific in purpose and as hot as hellfire. Protecting them. Caring for them. Marveling after them as they bloom into young plants, readying for maturity. A constant battle of cultivating not only the land but a new set of habits in order to brandish a fresh bottle of organic heat.