The fruits of my labor have fallen from the money tree to litter the grass, slightly fermenting on the gentle downward slope of my good intentions. When I partake of this heady and slightly desiccated flesh, I become drunk on the dreaming of sweet summer games.
Empty arms and a glass half full, I gaze into the crimson depths held in the fragile embrace of crystal.
Wandering from window to window, as if I expect to see something hopeful through the panes and the pains. Drifting through darkened hallways like a ghost, passing silently doorways exuding the soft sounds of those who have found their pillow welcoming. Stealthily turning the latch on the back door to slip softly into the night, with a vice in each hand. The smoke of my cigarette lingers heavy in the still air, making of itself a spectre beside me in the darkness.
The grass is frozen, slightly thawing under the heat of my bare toes, the ground is unyielding, and unwelcoming to my touch. I sway alone in the moonlight, dancing a slow dance of red wine and loneliness, with no face to hang on my wanting. No name caresses softly the curve of my lips, no visage of beauty alights in my eye, no memory is resurrected to bear the weight of my yearning. I simply sway through frozen clover and sing ‘stairway to heaven’.
I compose a poem in my mind about the aching and the emptiness. About the way the chill creeps in to a drafty heart and steals away the warmth of carefully banked inner fires. About how the dawn can bring light but no illumination, and how I could write things, but never make them right.
But the wind grew chill and I no longer had the heart for solitary dancing beneath smugly watchful stars, nor did I seek out my perfidious pen and my pernicious pages. I came slinking like a beaten hound to this merciless keyboard, regurgitating my sickness of heart in a blog post, because to see it glistening so starkly and honestly in black ink would undo me.