It Might Have Been

I find it so surreal, and just bizarre, that we have come to this point.

Formerly motivated by love, the harsh realities of this falsehood strike like a blow to the temple.
The heartstrings that were at one time gently pulled at were torn out of their tucked away places, leaving open wounds to fester in polluted atmosphere, now subject to salt-water-stinging capable of making one wince and withdraw back to a time completely reworked and rewired from the buried past. Honesty from your lips - veritas - lowers down gently,
dove-like,

an anvil descending from the heavens full-force to land precisely on the tips of my toes --

inhale

-- an awakening time of physical and nervous structure, and a full realization of all those haywire emotions that cause us to tick and pass time --

broken/exhale

-- Heart on sleeve was never an option and as I pull out my toes from under the heavy lead in such a fragile steady manner, I feel not broken bones but limitations of a damaged Body, a dirty Spirit, a shattered Mind.

Where we once were, we no longer are; when I look up from my bruised, battered feet I no longer see you but I feel your presence;
your words hang hauntingly.

I gobble them greedily, with a lack of utensil except for my hands and eager stomach.
Hunger can leave one so desperate for any morsel, any taste at all, be it pure or poison.
The thought never occurs -- only the impulse to consume, swallow, absorb.
I choke on speed, on bitter taste, on sweet truths that pierce the Esophagus on the way down to the Gut.
Blood on the inside, swimming too deeply past boundaries -- Blood is meant for a superficial bodily realm.

This ill feeling, so unpleasantly familiar, vague but known so well, swells from core to limbs to master plan - the only reaction is to expel what once was, and now is again.
Too arduous to let reside.
Uncontrolled, out it flows, in the form of nasty thoughts and bloody prose.
Questions of altered behaviour plague my Mind - how much blood-letting can I stand before I flicker and blow out?

I dare not switch positions for fear of losing rhythm, for fear of looking away and missing your grand exit.

Now motivated by something less childish than romantic dreams, false idols, green monsters and hunger, the flow of Blood slows; instantly the Body to which the Mind is so ungrateful, begins the process of upping white cell counts --
a new battle has begun.
Repairing and maintaining, no thanks given to the mind, the Body has ceased that ritualistic flow.
Mind is only automatic when cruising on even road; shifting gears is manual, takes effort, conscience. Discipline.
Self.
New heartstrings may grow again; old ones shrivel and decompose into whence they came.
Mind must align, give in, fall down, propel up.

I still long to open that shrouded door that few, if any, have found; crawl into your brain and snuggle up to rest in musty darkness.
I long for warmth, to breathe in dust and dirt accompanied with the air; take it all in; freshness and death.
Access denied; an issue with seriousness.
Playing tricks again, damn Mind, why did you ignore the 'Private' sign?
That door is impassable - do not ignore the deadbolts.
To say there is no keyhole would be an insult to us both.

Intuition, breaking through in dreams, fell on deaf ears blind eyes unwilling to hear and see reality for its realness, remaining untouched by human perception.