Random Thoughts from an Empty Room

A mix tape plays in the background.
Every verse a new insight into a
heart hidden from my view...
saying, "I only want to be with you."
Who can deny the existence of a soul,
when every melody and note brings
me closer to comprehending yours.
The old beats that once filled my
ears in an era past, where these
verses were vacuous expanses for a
foreign entity which was slowly
consuming me now take on a new shape.
"I am yours", I am not the slave to
a forgone past, where a false love
animated every kiss and awkward
angle of actuality, no...
Now those words have been rehabilitated.
"I am yours", I am a kindred spirit
fighting against the strong winds
of uncertainty and frailty.
I am servant to a higher purpose now,
and my relationships no longer serve
as means but rather as beautiful ends in themselves.
This organic manifestation of the cosmic
merger of the mind and body universes,
humbles the senses and finds me here.
A stranger in a new land, where language
is dead, murdered by the sword of Eros
who stands above its corpse in reflective
silence...but I can peer into his eyes,
and the expanse of all that is and all
that will be stands before me, a singular
creative affirmation of life.
Oh how love playfully colors the sensual world,
everything takes a new form.
I can now smell the essence of femininity
protruding from that room,
A sweet taste exploding in my mouth,
a poignant penetration of new ideals
leaving my mouth thirsty for repose.
I can now taste the bright dance of colors,
as I imagine every intimate experience.
Her fair skin slightly caressed,
The angles of her body meticulously calculated,
Her lips being intuited by all my powers,
her eyes sweetly gazing into an unintelligible
and entirely Romantic abyss,
Her cells quietly breathing in concord
with the beat of her heart,
Beat a drum, I'm done.
I rummage through her old books,
the pencil marks and half-legible
words create a small cabin which
peers over serene lakes which abound
with the prophetic muses of creative
genius.

Her past now becomes mine, I consume it
into my being, I will not allow the physical
world to prevent my subjectivity from engulfing
all that is precious and most delicate.
I search these decaying remnants of a past
life not my own, and for the first time
I actually begin to understand myself.
I begin to realize that I is not i,
that i am not the I that filled countless
papers with erratic commentaries and
essays on love; an I that was wholly
unknown and lacking truth.
i sit on a rocking-chair on the porch
of her old cabin, smoking a pipe and
watching the breeze blow in from Northern
Pines off the nearby coast, where fanciful
birds with colorful plumage win over their
brides; i sit there and wonder.
Wondering, there i sit...and slowly inch
towards the edge of the rock closest to
her lakes, and there i take in all reflections.
A black diary sits lonely in the corner,
adorned only by a name, and a location.
It's pages are empty and bare, no
personal thoughts related, no giggly ramblings
of youth found, the lines of the pages
shiver as the conditioned air flows through
them.

But i look closer and deeper, i meditate on
the utter significance of this symbol,
amid all the unused logs and knick-knacks,
this diary is not only hers, it is mine.
But it is not only mine it belongs to all humanity.
Everything flows into me like a mystical experience,
but this miserable simile defiles my truth.
i close my eyes and realize that the entirety of my
past no longer constrains me with chains of guilt or regret.
Her story is not her own, and i come to the realization that
mine never has been my own.
All interactions and movements within the body-universe
cannot afford to be degraded to isolated incidents and
shameful accidents; autonomy deserves to be artful.
As i adulterate her angelic waters with the
prejudice of my subjectivity i begin to chant
an inaudible melody; i try in vain to lull
her waters to sleep, so that those reflections no
longer frighten me.
But what am i afraid of...what is fear?
A demagogue would answer, 'the only thing to fear: fear itself',
A fool would answer, 'I know not of fear, it does not exist',
i answer, 'there is a fear that gracefully connects us all,
every human, every action in an inextricable union of fear...
but hold my hand please, hug my body please, kiss my lips please,
for in your presence i only fear its going away.'
Thus my gaze falls upon these reflections,
these musical notes of a life lived,
of words spoken, and words consumed by consciousness,
of big words, small words, adjectives, nouns, verbs,
prepositions, all grounds of grammar covered.
It is not the life i lived which concerns me,
but the life i have yet to have lived.
The life that has yet to fill the empty pages
of that open diary.
The waters of her creative genius begin to calm,
the birds and their brides now fly above me,
the old cabin creaks and cracks,
every odd sound a constant reminder that
the edifice is a sad semblance of a far more
profound reality.
The reality of union; a creative assertion of
a living breathing life.
Oh if only these walls could listen, here me
now: “i shall make my home in you because
the furniture is comfortable, the inside is warm,
the roof has perfect slants, the shelves are filled
with books for reading, the kitchen is filled with
food for eating, and every air that this old cabin
breathes out is filled with small epiphanies
and particles of enlightenment that trickle down
my spine and into my toes.”
i sit back down on the rocking-chair,
the winds have calmed and the sun has
gone back down to its slumber grounds,
all around me the cool summer breezes
fulfill their destinies as they tantalize my senses.
i sit down, smoke my pipe and have some tea.