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This week has been hell for Steve. The world stays the same for him, but everything else moves forward. In fact, for Steve time may be regressing. His armor shows chinks that had been rewelded. His eyes do not seek truth or sympathy or comraderie. They look down and hope to be passed without much notice. He echoes this thought, it is not what you are to people it is what you do, but no amount of coaxing or cajoling can stop the drumming and beating on the sides of his cranium, from the walls in these rooms where he sits, from the very thin air. It does not matter. There is no flying today or anytime soon. Geometric harmony will elude us yet again. Poor Steve. He doesn't have a fucking clue....

Letting go

Poetry is emotion subtly moving through my psyche.

Day is done. Nox eternum.
It is a constant chill the blows on my wet, naked soul.
No cry, no release,
No cathartic cataract tumbling from on high
to heal and wash away the memories...

...Her sun-blonded hair draping across my chest;
Her body slowly heaving on top of me...

There are things that I can never wash away.

The stain of love and regret. Of wishing
two things at once diametrically opposed.
They say that time heals all things.
That is hard to believe for an obsessive mind in love.
In love, maybe not with a person so much any more,
but an ideal.
A commingling of ought and is. (Am I not good enough?)

There are ways to break this circadian yoke, so I hear.
But they may break me in the process.
There are boundaries I just cannot cross by myself.
Standing up for me...Being me around people I do not know.

Being able to let go.