I cannot fight against
The tides
The ocean will do
What it has always done
I cannot fight against
Your going away
Aloof and detached
It is what you do
Get gone
So far into yourself
And the microscopic world
Of your mind
The small motions of your life
Oh, I know
I know what you are
How you move
I watched you so long
From afar
Before I broke through
How did I...
How did I elude
Your defenses for that
Brief, beautiful time
How did I
Penetrate
Resonate
In such a way that you saw
Something outside of you
And yours
It is like the waves on the sea
Decided to sleep a while

What a clusterfuck. I left my lover and began to date a very nice young man. They were unrelated events. Well, shit...it seemed to be going well, aside from the crying I experienced daily on account of my lover and how goddamn sorrowful our lot was. But hell, I was going with the new. I was riding it on out.

Then the young man explodes. Oh the joys of recovery. We think too much and that shit ends badly every time.

How fucked. To feel sad. To feel RELIEVED. I talked to my lover (ex-lover?, I guess)/best friend (because he has been that for me for a good long time, now). He told me that we all feel alone and screwed up emotionally. Oh Kilometers, how right he is. That sonofabitch always is. Then he says...well, he'll be around soon. Maybe tomorrow.

What does that fucking entail? I want to press my forehead to his and growl low and deep.

The young man- frustrated and full of jangling thoughts. He needs time, he needs time. Fine. Whatever. I want my lover. Everyone else in the world can go on and get on with themselves. I want to hear the fiendish laughter of feral joy, once more.

I think people go to hell for less than this.

It's kind of hilarious, actually.

I feel like I am always outside of a window looking in unable to speak any sense or act at all just held there in stasis staring in and longing to have something worthy of saying something worthwhile to be doing other than looking in and knowing that is all I will ever do

there is nowhere to go from here I could wander for miles my boots falling to pieces lie under the stars mind haunted and sleepless but I will not have truly moved away from the window all of the days just burn away and are merely cinders falling from a cigarette shaking in a nervous hand

I keep trying to write about the past four months.
Where I left off.
What came of it.
The place where fantasy became reality.

I had boxed him into that fantasy, into poetry. Relegated to a hopeless, lovelorn fixation.
He burst out of those boxes, beautiful and sincere and so fucking real. So much my idea of him but more.

I have felt his forehead pressed against my own. His hair between my fingers. His hands hot on my body.
I have taken off his glasses and looked into his eyes, which are golden and telling.
He shudders and he shakes. He is gentle and forceful and impossibly tantalizing.

I feel like I have a weak hold on a powerful thing.

Something so vivid and beautiful eventually has to explode.
Someone like me...I am all the more drawn in.

I want to straddle the cosmos, stars bursting, nebulae burning.

Title: Something Left to Long For
Author: Mandalyn
Rating: G
Characters/Paring: Eric, vague E/S, Godric
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Up to 2.11
Summary: As the centuries pass, there are fewer things left to desire.
Crossposted at trueblood100 

I feel God in his gaze. All of eternity seems to stretch out before me, and I understand the nature of love and of the divine spark of ecstasy. What we perceive as reality trembles in the wake of the way he looks at me.

I marvel that he believes in nothing. He lives within the futility of one lifetime. I walk in time in this body, yet my mind strays far away from such confines. Time. It is a human concept, and there is a part of me that has always been decidedly inhuman.

I desired to trace the paths of your bones

Long I dwelt on the taste of autumn colored roses

And ripe lips

When I knew them at last

Waves of exaltation and exultation

Rose and crashed, swept against any reservations

I had designed so that I would not long for you

Any longer

Last night something terrible almost wrenched her life away, and surely it took part of her essence. Her faith.

Today she awoke at her best friend's home, having fled, drunkenly in a city that is dangerous. But the danger was what she had fled from and her best friend brought her in. In the morning he made her an omelette and coffee and told her to explain to him what had happened. That was the first person she told.

At some point, sitting outside in the sun she was relating the tale to the second person she told. And as he has sometimes done, the man with cafe au lait skin and chocolate eyes appeared on a motorcycle and pulled up to the patio table. Gave her back something she had given to him some days before. Smiled at her.

Just seeing him made her feel lighter.

Later, after rest and a very hot bath...she did not feel better. She could make sense of nothing. The violence.

She went to speak to him. They went outside.

He sat next to her on the bench in the light, and she tried to explain it to him in fragments. He made her look at him and told her that she needed to tell him all that she remembered and spare no details. And she did. They talked and talked and he seemed so ungodly sad and more than a little angry. But the man she loves, he is always so very balanced on the outside.

Random hail came and they were standing inside a doorway. He just looked at her and pulled her to him so her face was pressed against his chest. The perfect height. The perfect things he said to her. There were some people they knew across the street, and thier other friend inside the shop and she momentarily wondered what they thought of that hug. It spoke volumes, but what those volumes said, only the two would know. One, a pale, frightened, tall waifish girl with faded irish rose colored hair and the fine small tattoos he had rendered on her inner wrists almost a year ago,  the other man with bronze skin, facial hair she had forced him to grow out a week before due to a favor, thick framed black glasses, tattoos all over and black clothing. The uniform.
They were cut short, when crisis for him came.

He drove her home. He was going to see his Uncle, dying in the hospital. Imminent IShe who had her young aunt, dying of cancer 1300 miles away). But when they got to her house he paused and looked at her with so much warmth and intensity she felt part of herself able to let some of it go. Even though it had all just taken place within that span of 24 hours. He hugged her again, tightly.

She went in. It was only then that she felt comfort.

Those that are wise wish to care for her, to cradle her possibility.
She has been adrift, abandoned, alone.
Her destiny has been murky at best, but angels have alighted upon her breaking back as she has tried to crawl into the abyss.

Whiskey in the afternoon, she smiles a ghost smile. Whispers a prayer that no one can hear before replying to any number of inane questions. Inanity. Apathy. Curse them, she thinks. They are killing her.

The room can be crowded but she may as well be as alone as she is sitting in her apartment. Her paintings adorn the walls. Orange light. Maps. Photographs.

When she had felt alive, the earth had been shaking. The terra form wrenching and ripping. She felt that wings may shoot out from behind her at any moment and that then she, she...she could guide. She could let someone lean against her to avoid the cracks.

That she might glow. Angelic. Nebulous, perhaps, but for just a moment vibrant, there, actual.

Last night she was at the only bar she could stand in the midwasteland that is the Twin Cities. At about 9:05 she was having her first cigarette talking to a wise and wizened older gent who she got to talking to once a week when she appeared. Then he came round the bend. Those damned gages in his ears and the uniform of black. They scowled at each other, which was customary. Always. The other two of his hetero tattooing life partners appeared shortly after and she joined them at a table.

At some point she accused him of being racist because he only ever wore black. And he loosened his pants, revealing his “Honda” belt buckle and showed her that his boxer briefs were gray. She told him she was pretty sure she was scarred for life, after that.

He gave her a ride home, and she said good night like she generally does. Hurried. The boys had mocked them something fierce about “rides” before they all parted.

But it was the same as ever. Things best left unsaid and undone.

She walked into her apartment, put her nightgown on and tried not to think about the deep chocolate of his eyes.