Bedroom Scene in April

She seems to have lost most of her physical desire. She lies there hoping his feeble attempts at initiating sex do not rear their ugly heads at night. She doesn't want to hurt him. It is a nightly affair and one that may turn up while the sun still shines. The dormant flower may open up fleetingly and wither in the space of minutes, to rest indefinitely again
until something brings it back to life.

He has tried to become as un-intrusive in his petitioning, in his soliciting, as possible. He fails repeatedly to initiate in a way that won't rub her the wrong way, but most attempts over time have yielded little other than invariably angering her and frustrating him. He feels emasculated in having to quell his assertiveness despite knowing he cannot possibly deal with making her feel bad.

When the fire is lit, she usually is the one initiating. Yet, she has come to despise the very act that brought them together in the first place. What was once an active volcano now spurts, slowing, cooling, with the occasional plume and eruption. Perhaps the ebb and eddy of any prolonged relationship. The downs of any mature love affair.

He wrestles with the knowledge that she finds it a chore, when he wishes she would long for his touch and feel like she used to, without having to fall into the invariable depth of feeling undesired.

They know they love each other. The peak expression of physical love has become a thorn in their side. When hearts are laid bare, raw, it is impossible not to feel hurt.

She hates him for making her feel bad. He wonders how he might make things better. Solve or skirt this issue. All he really wants is the be held and hold her in turn. Perhaps she would like that, too?

He will simply forget. Forget his desire to express himself in the physical way and find another outlet, a new way, a new vehicle, a new art. For her, he thinks it better to suppress this side of himself. He hopes it won't be an issue any longer. He hopes.

Perhaps abstinence will refocus their love. It has not waned, it has not withered, but maybe it would be beneficial. He thinks it is not a bad idea.

He just wants the peace he finds in her arms. If desiring more would lead to losing her, he'd rather not yearn.

Both sides feeling dejected, the matter agley. He hopes he can still bring a smile to her face and hold her close, soon.

Differing libidos, expectations, overthinking and fear.

Awkward Crossroads

He sat in the toilet stall, the third from the deep wall. Always the third stall, wherever he went.

He sat there, when he should have been at his cubicle, pounding away at the keys, pretending to care about the frivolous issues of first-world strangers, crying foul about abstract afflictions that should have no room in a practical man's world. But they did.

He sat and used his excretory excuse as a scapegoat for dodging responsibility.

He thought over and over about running from it all. Quitting the job, leaving his children - products of a failed marriage – and making for the strangest place he could think of.

The stupid timed lights in the bathroom turned off. If nobody moves outside the stalls for three minutes, the lights go off. It made wiping properly a veritable feat. He was not worried, though, as he didn't intend to move from the stall for a few minutes yet. The darkness was reassuring, comforting.

For some reason, though, the darkness was different that night. If felt pregnant with presence. A tingle of fear - a sliver, really - ran up his spine and up to his nape.

He thought himself silly. What could possibly be there? Nothing, of course, but then, he was sure there was something odd. Not logically, though. No.

"Hello", a voice soft as silk yet deep like ocean depths.

He sat there, startled into motionless apprehension.

"No need to fear me at this junction, Nick", the voice went on.

Nick had not heard anyone come in after he walked into the bathroom. He also did not hear any flushing from the neighboring stalls or any of the sounds that accompany the labor that habitually transpires therein.

"I believe you will intuitively glean my identity soon enough", it continued in mellifluous, grandfatherly manner. "But that, as well, is of little import here."

The voice was coming from the other side of his stall's door. Nick thought it might be someone playing a prank oh him, though he really couldn't place its owner. He decided to open the door quickly and found that he could not. The door appeared glued to its frame.

"No need for that, Nick."

"Strike any silly notions from your mind. They will not benefit either one of us, I assure you."

Nick sat there. Puzzled and trying to come to grips with the surreal situation.

After a moment, the voice spoke again.

"My purpose here is to make you an offer. Listening to the proposal will cost you nothing. You may very well decline at no cost, as well. However, understand that, should you agree to a contract, the seriousness and finality thereof will be iron-bound and unalterable in any form."

After a moment, the voice went on.

"I see that you are now ready to listen"

******************************

"Brothers and Sisters, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of our beloved brother Nick De Bar." A catholic priest spoke to a large crowd of mourners gathered around a large, opulently decorated wooden casket and the rectangular, 6-feet-deep hole where it would soon be deposited.

“He spent his life fulfilling his many dreams and helping others in fulfilling theirs.” The priest continued. “Although he left us under unclear circumstances, his true whereabouts unknown, it is in keeping with the grand design that he is no longer among the living. May his soul find its way to your merciful embrace, oh Lord.”

As the empty casket was lowered into the ground, its intended occupant missing, his whereabouts unknown, a light drizzle of rain began to fall. The mourners began to quickly make their way to the shelter of their automobiles, having paid their respects by their mere presence.

A fitting end to the somewhat informal funeral service the missing-and-presumed-departed had wished to have.

Nick’s epitaph on his tombstone read, as he had instructed in his will:

I would choose the same path gladly if given the choice anew.

Heavy.

It's a strange place to be in; one's lover depressed when one, too, is depressed. Once tries to hide one's depression so as not to bring the other down, while the other tries to as well, but the one notices and feels it.

I ask her to talk to me, but she doesn't want to. I feel perhaps I should start talking, then. I am weary and worried and wishing I could make her smile. We are not responsible for each others happiness, but we sure help each other in that regard. So when I fail to make her even a little brighter, well, I feel pretty useless... especially in light of all else that goes on around me lately. I can't seem to make any progress in just about all my endeavors. Things feels so mired and now the one comforting thing about my life is in a difficult stage.

It's strange: I want to comfort her. I want to ravage her. I want to kiss her. I want to eat her out. I want to sing to her. I want to go inside her. I want to hold her close to my chest. I want to taste her swollen tongue.

I want to fill her with emotions and thus be filled myself. Are we drowning?

Feeble Beeble

Feeling so tired. So weary. So open. So frail.

There is so little I can do right now, it seems. You are here, within reach, but I can't summon the magic to make you smile. I can't summon a single spark.

I am feeble yet honest. A bad combination, perhaps?

I have no way of knowing what I'm supposed to do right now. Let it slide? Let things be and just stand meekly in the corner while it all passes by?

I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand.

Somebody throw me a line? Throw me a bone? Anybody...?

Them's the breaks, people.

According

To a certain web app, I write a little like one of the sci-fi masters...

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Warts

So here we are again; warts revealed, ugly bumps painfully visible under the accusing light of the sun. The last
time I was here, exposed, I was loathed for all that I was, all that I am. So the question is posed anew: Can I
be loved, warts and all? Can she love me knowing my faults?

It's selfish of me, perhaps, to be yearning to be loved. To be seen for my faults and still be found worthy of love.
To be seen as the frail human being I have always been and, somehow, still seem beautiful to her.

Will she see that I long to be able to overcome these faults in me? To assuage my character flaws and become a better man?
Will she see that she's a reason for me to be a better person?

I make oceans out of puddles, I know. But the little things are the ones that kill... and I am so little.

I am horrible, I know. I am ugly inside, I know. I am flaw upon flaw; layers of wrong. But am I still worthy of
of the privilege?

Can I fulfill her? Can I see her for who she truly is? Can I come to understand her? Am I simply too obtuse to do so?
Will the same revealing light that shines upon me be cast on her? Will I find her as beautiful as I have found her thus
far?

Madness, this intensity of emotion. This is madness. Irrational is what I have become. Where have I left my self-control?
Where are my measured movements and calculated actions? I am at a loss, for I know nothing of where these may
have eloped to, married and off on some journey wherefrom I will never see them returned...

Madness. Sweet, painful, joyful madness. Dark, warm, heartwrenching madness. She is my madness.

Mynos

It's a strange feeling... after all this time... and yet not being so long...
from a logical standpoint.

I am at a loss for words to describe this elation... this sated feeling, this...
unbelievable feeling of well being.

Crash and burn... perhaps... but I am lost inside this labyrinth... I am lost and am quite glad.

Weep Not

So the circus ensues.
The clown follows suit
In the rain, in the soot
Lo! The circus ensues.

In the mire of emotions
Swelling like the mighty oceans
Kept at bay by strengthened walls

My, the curtains fall heavy
And the lamp's light grows dim
While it witnesses their sin
How the curtains fall heavy

In my eyes, bearing witness
In the light of the cold stars
Faceless specters of the night
In the windy hush, there, listless
In the expanse of our personal wars

Call the hounds that bay
Let them slobber over my bones
That the crows may have no homes
Hear, the hounds that bay

In the desert of illusion
Not unlike that blood transfusion
Strip away the bloody walls

Yearn for the heart that has gone
Away with the hope of child-like wonder
In the dead of night, I ponder
And mourn for the heart that has gone.