More. . .

More then this 
I cannot do.
More than me 
I cannot be. 
I have tried 
My best for you.
More than this 
I will not do. 

I have tried
And I have failed
Tried and tried
To no avail.

Your standards
I will not meet
Finally 
I admit defeat. 

Things fall apart

There's a poem buy William Butler Yeats, called The Second Coming. Lately I hear the words over and over in my mind. "Things fall apart. The center cannot hold".

I think probably because that's how I feel at the moment. I'm coming apart. I'm finding it hard to hold it together. 

 "The ceremony of innocence is drowned". I know I'm misinterpreting the poem. But phrases from it speak clearly to my current situation. I feel like my innocence has drowned. I've crossed over to the sick and sadistic dark side. 

 "The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity". Whose left to help me save my soul? Why? It's far more pleasurable to savour my skin. 

I'm sure none of the above makes any sense in any context. 

I miss you

 "I miss you", she typed and holds her breath for a response. When none comes she laughs at her ridiculousness, embarrassed by her foolish expectation. 

"What were you really expecting doofus? Next you're probably going to tell him you love him hey?" 

Bet you think

Bet you think this post is about you. Don't you. 
Well maybe it is. Or maybe it's not. 
Maybe it's about no one I've ever met.
Or someone I've always known. 
And then again you turned out to be both of those. 
The stranger I've known half my life. 
The man who knows my past but won't be part of my future. 
Like fireworks I flash anger then sympathy. 
Grief and gratitude
Longing and stubborn denial.
And then I admit, understanding. 
With downcast tear stained eyes
I apologise. 

Make believe moments

Sitting beside him on a park bench she loops her arm through his and plants a kiss on his shoulder. In these moments together she can almost fool herself into believing life is perfect. He holds her hand and she feels the calluses on his knuckles. The rough, strong hands of a working man. A real man.

Her heart swells with emotion. The bitter sweet kind. 

Dog walkers greet politely as they pass. Their four legged children giving the couple on the bench a sideways glance. 

She turns to him and says, "kiss me". She loves the way his eyes smile with mischief. His mouth finds hers. But the kiss is over before she is ready for it to be. Her eyes are still closed when he pulls away. 

She knows however he could kiss her all day and it still wouldn't be enough. She would still want more. They sit in silence for a little while longer. Soon they'd have to go. Make believe moments weren't meant to last.

Samson

If I were a suitcase
What tales would I tell?
Would I complain
About suitcase hell?
First class my ass,
While you travel in style,
I get manhandled
And tossed on a pile.

Samson was a suitcase, solid and proud. He had a metallic grey shell, an extendible handle and wheels that could take him anywhere. Samson was well travelled. He'd seen dreary, cold London and sunny Spain. Home, however, was in the closet of Bromley Place, Suburbia.

Samson heard talk about an African Safari. He had mixed feelings about a bush adventure. He wiggled his way into the deepest corner of the closet and hoped that the woman would opt for Carey, the backpack. Carey was a spontaneous, adventure loving kind of girl. Samson was sure Carey would love Africa.

Samson shuddered when he thought about his late grandfather, Samson the first. He never had the opportunity to get to know the old trunk, who was often away in deep, dark Africa. But Samson remembered the day the woman threw the dusty, brown and battered old bag out the window, into the dumpster below.

And then there was Samson the Second, he's father. Samson was still a young case, barely out of his wrapping, when Samson Sr. was reported lost. He had bravely taken on his duty to travel to Africa, but never returned.

"No", said Samson. "No Africa for me".

That's when he heard the bedroom door swing open and the man call out, "Get your suitcase love. The taxi is on its way".