Is it even English, the script upon the page, or am I just blinded by my sorrow, pain, and my rage? Writing honest feelings, although not sure how well received, a married man mourning his mister, or mistress be believed?
Immoral more than likely, emotional for sure, but does that negate the intention, or that my feelings pure? Does it make it true, just because it’s written down, a stain across a white page, words spinning around?
To write a virtual novel, about how I feel, using polite and lofty words, does that make it any more real? What of the life back home, can a heart split in two, wanting both sides of the fence and in the middle too.
I write again to understand, then delete the script across the page, not ready for presentation, for book, or show, or stage. Is it a story worth telling, worth the effort I put in, to lay bare my heart and soul, to present my sin?
Pull the curtains tight, lock them into place. No one should see behind the façade, recognize my face. Would I only hurt those I claim to care for, those who I do provide, better to erase the sins of past, and in memory I hide?
And what of the actors? those who try to explain, the written word on the page, my grief, my love, my pain. Would they be able to comprehend and to project? no better to erase my shame, in hopes that I can protect.
Who should be the one to play my part, as well as to play you, which one of us plays the king, the other played the fool? Who would have your charms, your handsome bad boy grin, all your movements, the seduction, a body made for sin?
You reach for the dialogue incomplete in my hand, smearing the ink before it dries and try to understand.
What do you mean by love, you ask, surely you don’t mean to tell something so personal, spread across the screen?
Grasping tear stained parchments, frayed and often torn, aborted thoughts and feelings, that never should be born, and yet I give them shape and form, even give them a name, something to which I can hold, to own, and yes, to blame.
I never asked you to love me, and never would presume, to ask that of anyone only leads to doom. And yet you would shadow my doorstep, soon passions again would burn, only to say goodbye again, and then we both return.
Plagued by unrequited love, or perhaps worse still, feeling that you indeed return, and know that it would kill. Kill the passion, mystery, the cloak and dagger romance, if we admitted more between us than what is in our pants.
And what of this production, tell me how does it end, saying goodbye, tears in our eyes, agreeing we will still be friends? Were we ever friends, are we allowed that term? For everything that was between us, longing, passion burns,
That level of physical attraction, of want and of desire, raging crazy through our veins, consuming like a fire. What do we have left, if no longer in that place where bodies were pressed together, while our hearts did race?
Can you call that friendship, can anything remain when all it was, was physical, all is left is pain. Desire that I still held you, wanting to feel you near. Cause what it seems I am left to feel, to me seems more like fear.
Fear I’ll never see you again, or feel your lips on mine, fear that life for you continues, and I’ll never be on your mind. Fear that you will find someone else, and leave me behind, and hopes that when you look back at us, your words and thoughts are kind.
Ah, what I am writing, the words I bleed the ink, left to wishfully remember, what left within a blink. Holding onto images, feelings I can recall, about that sweet boy next door, for whom I so quickly fall.
Perhaps it’s a tragedy, the play that was never told, for we didn’t just fade away, nor did we grow old. I don’t know what happens, or if this is the end, all I can do is dream this dream, and when awake pretend.
Remembering rendezvous, of stealing kisses in the dark, of nights of passion, touching feeling sparks. I remember the scent of you, and of course that smile, wishing you thought the same of me, loving you all the while.