Christmas Eve (2001)

It's Christmas Eve - and I don't want to cry,
or feel this loneliness inside. Insistently,
my intuition says that we shall never
meet again, in loving ways. I remember
more and more each time I try just to
forget. There are a million moments
of our love insisting that they must
live on in time and space, without this
growing mystery of opposition.

And here the twist, the turn, the jab,
as reality comes rushing in again.
I think of you, and see you there,
pretending that we never even met.
A smile on your face, denying even
still, that you feel it all as real (even here,
within the cruelty of your departure().
And there, just there, you choose to pat
yourself upon the back; and tell yourself
again that this is somehow right and therefore
all the love we shared was wrong.

And so to you, that's all I am these
days - just wrong (no matter what
I feel or say or do). Stubbornly, you
cling to those traditions that have come
to mean such emptiness to you. While
all the love you claimed to feel for me
stays bottled up inside of you - festering,
without the air to breathe. Turning
into something altogether different
than the stream that once ran clear
and clean and true between we two.

You'll even take a trip to church tomorrow,
a church that you have never really been
a member of. You'll hear them speak of
that great love when Christ the child was
born, wondering again just why it was that
you had never come to bring a son of yours
into the living world. Your daughters will be
sitting there with you. Silently again, you'll
wonder why this God would take your son
from you, before he even learned to breathe
at all. A deeper sigh - your wife and that
great God of hers decided long ago that
this would be your punishment - for a crime
that you yourself never committed.

Not stopping, even yet, to wonder when
this sentence of imprisonment might finally
come to end. Or by what right these
strangers came to punish you this way.
And no, you must not think that now you've
laid this punishment upon me too, within
a cycle of continuance. Nor how your own
obeisance to the past must still decree that
it be so. Your parents, never really gone,
are looking down on you. They too can feel
this suffering of yours. It spreads through
worlds invisible, no matter how you wish it
to be only yours alone.

You wonder why your children's eyes
don't carry that bright light the way they
used to do. And why they look at you in
that strange way these days, each time
they think you aren't really looking. You
notice how your wife refuses still to look
at you for real at all. And wonder at the
many months you spent, trying to convince
yourself that all of this could still be overcome
and finally forgotten, as if it really never
happened there within you. While all the many
efforts you put in, have accomplished nothing
much at all within reality; for it all remains the
same to you, especially now - the longing and
the pain; the sorrow that remains a lump within
your throat each time you try to speak
the truth to them.

There is an ache inside of you too constantly
these days. You've tried for many moons
to leave it undefined, as if this way, it
just might go away without you ever
knowing what it was composed of. Why
does it seem to grow as time goes on?
And no matter how you try to push it
far away from you, it still returns in
bouts of passion's frenzy, even there,
within the precincts of your mind.

It's Christmas Eve, and you don't want to cry,
or feel this loneliness inside. Yet insistently,
a voice inside you says that we shall never
meet again in loving ways. And you
remember more and more each time
you try just to forget. For there are a
million moments of our love insisting
that they must live on, eternally ...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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