Too Soon

He fell up, into an attitude of caring
not for anything at all. 'Twas then
he found he had a spirit speaking
to him after all was said and done.
Detached, yet somehow more than
this - a high that glided through the
frozen skies without a chill - and
a deep that roarted within the nothingness.

He needed not a sense of will for
this; for he felt powered by a source
that seemed entirely outside himself.
Within this place and space he deemed
to be his very own (love entered not into
this one delirious equation), a spectrum
of a multitude of living colors passed
unseen (recorded by his inner eye
alone).

He needed nothing more than a sense
of balance, deep-seated somewhere -
lost inside, and ever out of reach.
It seemed he'd been here, to this point
before, yet nothing in his past had e'er
prepared him for the likes of what was
taking place within his life these days.
It used to be, his memories would enter
in to soothe away the many worries
of his daytime attitudes. But as of late,
his living memories did nothing more
than just remind him of the love that
he had left so far behind.

He'd been here all too many times before -
he could handle this (or so he told himself
repeatedly).  Why was it that this time
seemed to become no more than
infinite demise of that - his living will
in time and space and place? What was it
that she'd brought alive in him that still refused
to meet its death? Vaguely, he reached
out to her again, and yet again an utter
emptiness was all he met, and nothing more.

He tossed and turned, but couldn't sleep.
He dozed, but then those dreams of her
began to form within him yet again.
How many times now, had he stopped himself,
even as his fingers began dialing her number
on the phone? Whatever could he say to her
that would appease the icy climbs he chose
to live in his rejection of the love
that she'd so freely given him?

He felt as if the chill of his departure
had come settle back in him again.
No longer was he able to pretend that
it was she who hadn't been enough for
him. Some part of him insisted now,
that he come to feel it true. That sky, so
deeply blue within the moment that he
chose to just walk out on her (without
so much as fare-thee-well), it echoed
with a lack of light he'd never known
to be within himself before.

Secluded in his Southern warmth, the sun
still brightly shining in the breeze, this chill
he felt could find no scientific explanation
of a cause and then effect, not there in him.
Nor would it stop - that feel of being stifled,
that grew within increasing increments inside
of him. Her words to him were echoing,
yet still he could not find the strength to
listen. For he'd been taught he must believe
himself the best and nothing less. Yet she
had shown him that the best and worst
walked hand and hand in absolutely
everything. This simply could not be!

How would he ever come to understand
the wisdom only she had granted him
within the length and breadth and
width he'd come to think as all his life
alone in flesh? How would he yet come
to survive all that he thought of as
the distance separating them? That
distance that he'd chosen, thinking
to amend it all within the speed of
man-made power.

He slept, and yet each time that point
of his awakening came due, it seemed
his dreams insisted they accompany
each step he took into the greater world.
And she was there, no matter how he
wished or willed her vision and the feel
of her to simply disappear.

Down and dirty, all the many cards he'd
played as time went on and on. Life no
more than just a game - at death the
win or loss would settle in. He'd chosen,
long ago, to just abide within beliefs that
the majority held true. Yet even still,
he lived, he breathed - this emptiness of
loss that left him breathless in the wake
of all the unfelt quality he'd felt with her.
He'd spent the spring and summer days,
out seeking sprites that danced upon
the waves of utter being - yet his quest,
this time around, proved meaningless,
without her there.

And she was gone by his own choice -
not hers. How was it that he'd come to
only this? When each time before, he'd
turned the female's loss to his advantage.
What was it that her presence came to
change so utterly, within his being? He'd
played his cards the way he'd always
played these games before; yet something
had gone wrong, so very wrong, this time
around.

It felt as if the world were spinning, faster
than it ever had before. Still somehow,
she alone retained the wonder of all
slowing down. How had he made the
choice to leave that sense of timelessness
so far behind? At last, the dark night of
the soul had come to surface within him -
and he knew not what to do or where to
turn. Voices in the wind would echo,
telling him to ask her, for she knew.

Yet still, he dared not speak a word to her.
Because, for all that he'd rejected her in
action; it felt as if she were the one who
finally rejected him in depth. Ghostly
images of youth he'd never dared to
contemplate, arose within him then.
He fought to hold them back as if
they'd never come to find a home in
him. Echoing, they dreamed his sleep
into eternal realms.

His father and his brother, taken too
soon from his life. His unborn son,
that never came to breathe a breath
of life. Too deep, these mourning
breaths, no matter the necessity in
him - he knew not how to take them,
even then. Each time he tried, he felt
as if some vital part of his own heart
would meet disintegration. And now,
her image stood there, telling him it
must be so - if ever he might hope to
meet and greet his living destiny of love.

She spoke of an integrity that he had
yet to come to know as his. He loved her
and he hated her for that, somehow (but
how?) at one and the same time. How
ever had she ever come to climb out of
this valley of despair that he had based
his life upon? Still, every night, he
dreamed of her again, no matter all
the space of distance that he thought
he'd put between them.

Was this no more than an obsession?
"No!" (some greater part of him responded.)
He tossed and turned and sweated
yet another night away - regret the only
feeling that resounded there in him.
A momentary interlude of sleep would
ease him back into his dreams of her
again (but not for long).

When one more time, he felt himself
just falling up into an attitude of caring
not for anything at all - for it dwelled there,
in the chosen of his willed reality. Just then,
his spirit found its voice again. Above,
beyond - much more than just detached;
like a high that glided through the
frozen skies without a chill (as if the
utter warmth of their two hearts began
to beat in sync again).

At last, the only mood that felt like
peace, would settle in him.  Too soon,
too soon, the clock would strike
within a vengeance of alarm,
repelling one more time,
his soul's appeal...

? Michaelette ?

11/2/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...