I am not me anymore
and I did not realize that fact
for some time,
that I am not me, anymore.
the people I love are all the same
the people I know are only
older like me
who is not me but someone
else all along.
I wanted to be me and
fought all this time to stay
and I never was
for I’ve never been me.
No the only difference is
I’m unafraid of the mystery
of not being me
all this frayed years.
oh to be saved, just once in my life.
“you are a soldier,” I say and I know my voice sounds weary.
“You are a soldier,” I say “what good has beauty ever done a woman
or the man who truly loves her?”
You remain silent by my side, my hand within the crook of your elbow.
Warm, at last, I think to myself, my hand within the fold of your arm
my mind already far away from my statement.
“I guess not a damned thing, but I love you anyway,”
What could it mean, from you, the words I love you?
That perhaps you are tired of being alone?
Now that middle age has settled in for good and all
and your plans of a younger woman, children at last
seem much too tall an order.
Do I sound bitter?
Not at all.
Depressed just a little.
You now prefer the sherry by the hearth for me
a good amber colored whisky sour for you
but never drunk, only there to reflect the fire.
Such a pretty picture of you and me.
I sip mine alone and prefer it that way,
when years ago and now too late,
I was you and now I am you twenty
What could have happened to you and to me?
Nothing, of course because nothing started.
Oh there was that one time in the dark – but
to mention it seems so crass.
Girls and women, there is no difference
to our stupidity.
We grasp at straws the moment alone
and then wonder why when only
a moment ago
we seemed so sane.
I refused to make you more than a man
some mystery, some teacher taught by
temple walls and spiritual imaginings.
at times Shakespeare comes to mind
“You men never stay.”
Those words would have rocked the house
on any given day.
This is no play, and I no harlot.
Go now and play at being great.
I’ll stay with the struggle, the war
and write to you some day.
simply put but it never, never is
it – what could it be?
You and I and the silence
what was meant to be.
but I demanded reality
you demanded dreams.
little left of light but what is left, I read by.
the flame so small will give no warmth
so I read by and by.