Want Is The Soul Of Love.

How do we know
when to give up?

How do we know
when to finally
let go?

Of all that was,
and all that should be
but isn't?

How do we know?

Perhaps
it is a birthday passed
without the breath of a word.

Perhaps
it is
a Halloween,
a Thanksgiving,
a Christmas,
and a New Years,
spent without?

The black out
and cut-off,
should be the tip of the hat;
but I want more.
I want,
a funeral of great pomp and circumstance;
to bury this love.
I want sad trumpets
and a twenty-one gun salute;
before I can finally take
this love I carry
and put it in the ground.

I want a perfectly appointed,
uniformed soul
to hand me the neatly folded flag
of our "nation of two",
and look me in the eye
and then away.
I want someone to acknowledge,
and agree
that I have suffered a great loss;
through no fault of my own.
I want resolution.

I want to turn back clocks,
and walk backwards
through the hills and hollers,
of the family homestead,
until I somehow
find my way back into waiting arms.
I want to wake
in the blackest of the blue,
of the earliest morn,
and feel the breath upon my shoulder.
I want to reach over,
after waking from this nightmare,
and touch;
feel the alabaster cool
of familiar skin,
beneath my numb and broken hands.
I want.

I have never needed.
Needing is for the weak,
of heart and soul.
Wanting is so much more.
Wanting
is the soul of love.

And now,
I find myself
spinning out here
on the edge,
of this beautifully complicated machine,
needing.

I am at a loss.
"Need" is an emotion
I am not accustomed to.
It is a silly word
used by silly people
without a sense or purpose and self.
And here I am,
needing.

And here's the salt,
rubbed deep,
with steel wool,
into the wound;
It was all nothing really, wasn't it?
Because if it actually mattered,
why would I be out here,
alone,
lamenting the loss of you?

A Reluctant Nation of One.

We are not meant
to be solitary creatures.
I have discovered this recently.

Unwillingly
I became the subject,
of a cruel experiment,
in isolation and exile.
The experiment was set in motion
by someone that I had loved,
and carried out
by me.

Unwillingly,
I had my life pulled out from under me
and was forced
to start all over again.
It was a rebirth of sorts,
except
this time,
I was now an abandoned and frail infant
suffering from a weak heart
that would confine me
to the incubator of my new home.

Years ago
a study was done
of infants abandoned
and raised as orphans.
These children,
these tiny new machines,
snuggled deep
into donated stuffed animals;
and spooned each other,
found and held tiny hands,
if placed together in cribs.
They would coo in unison
when something felt good.
They would cry in unison
when something felt bad.
There was a inert need
to share
even the most rudimentary
emotion and thought.
It was discovered
that the human machine
is not meant to be alone.

And I have now discovered this as well.
I have spent the last four months
in solitary confinement.
I have a lovely cell
on the water,
with a glorious view.
I have fallen into
a routine of existing
but I am not living.
I rise each day,
work,
return home,
sleep,
and then repeat.
A friend of mine
from across the pond
asked me when the experiment had begun,
"How are you?"
And I replied,
"I am living without purpose,
and purposely living without."

I have no one to coo with
when I feel good.
I have no one to cry with
when I feel sad.
The soft hands
that used to bring me such comfort
are now the ghosts of graceful birds
that fly just out of my reach
in dreams.
The body
that used to allow me inside,
and create the union of souls
is gone.
And in it's absence
I find that I am no longer complete
or capable
of being human.

Twelve years
as a "nation of two"
have been removed from my life
by the rough hands
of an uncaring, union paid butcher.
I wonder
if she feels the same ache
and loss?
I wonder
if she laments the dissolve,
and the dissolution,
of our "nation of two",
as I do?

I wonder,
because this is all I have left.
Wonder,
and of course memories,
and regret.
Inside a .50 caliber ammunition case
hidden at the back of my closet,
is a tiny black box
that holds an engagement ring,
taken back.
The ring,
such a small precious thing;
now resembles a rusty bulldozer
or a fallen oak.
It is far to heavy
for me to lift
and dispose of
by myself.

We are not meant
to be solitary creatures.
I have discovered this recently.
And this discovery
gives me little comfort.
It is just another painful reminder
of my life shared
that is now lost;
and my new nation of one.

Fallout.

The nuclear winter
has set in
on the Fort.

Contaminated,
toxic snow,
falls heavy
with a purpose.
I am now beginning
to grasp
all that has been taken from me,
in the time it takes
familiar lips
to coldly say,
"I am not in love with you anymore."

The blast
and cloud
has passed.
The white heat
and earth reverberation
has subsided.
There is the crater full of memories
and words,
and the scorched circle of earth
that surrounds,
to remind me
of all that was lost.

So we move away
from what was once the center.
And we convince ourselves
distance
from the impact
will keep us safe.
We mistakenly believe
moving out and away
from the circle of devastation
will let us move on.

Then there is the uneasy and false calm.
A period of reclamation
and reflection.
You venture back outside
and check the wind.
You look to the sky
and wonder if it really is over?
You begin the rebuild.

And then
the nuclear winter comes.

The long term fallout
and after effects,
of the simple obliteration,
rain down from a grey
and muddled heaven,
that no longer seems to care
whether you have survived the worst
or not.

A fresh blanket of snow falls
while thunder cracks and whips;
and nerves of lightning
climb from the icy waters
back up into the sky.
Memories pile deep
along side the new roads home.
Promises and words
flood streams
and wash out bridges.
Home
is what you have lost.
Shelter
is all you seek.
And even this isn't enough
to bring peace.

You were warned
that this was coming.
You were warned
that this would take time.
You gathered supplies
and ammunition.
You thought
you were prepared.
And you thought
the worst was over.
You thought that distance
from the impact
would keep you safe.

But there is no refuge
from the grey blanket
that now envelopes your world.
You are still
the center of the blast,
and a storm
with the half-life
of weapons grade plutonium
is bearing down.

And now,
you are wishing
that you had been
vaporized
with the initial white heat and chaos;
erased with the words
that seared the heart
and splintered the soul.

But you are not so lucky.

The nuclear winter has set in;
and it's cruelty is unforgiving.
Skin is peeled back from brittle bone.
Loose teeth are pried from jaws,
and fashioned into crude pick axes
whose purpose
is to crack open the thick skull;
so that you might dig your hands
down deep into the viscera of your brain,
and find where all this memory and ache is stored.
If you are skilled enough to find it,
and remove it
without causing further damage;
you will wrap this memory and ache
in a blanket of rough cotton.

Behind the shed,
out back by the waters edge,
with bare raw hands,
you will scrape back the snow
from this undeserved nuclear winter,
smash through the frozen surface
and bury
all that was,
in the soft dusty loam
beneath.