A PostSecret of My Own...or...In case you ever read this....

I have written this already, chosen every word before
to express just what it is you mean to me, to release me from your spell.
But every word falls flat it seems,
as it scrawls across the page
only to be rebuffed, rebuttaled by lone margins bare
never taking to the wind, your ear, the air.

But in short-

I miss you.

The time we have spent apart now far exceeds the moments spent together. Yet I cannot shake you from my being. Your silence snubs my olive branches, the clearest indication--whatever it was is summarily over.

But I cannot cut you out, so strong was your impression on my heart. My mind. My conscience. And I cannot imagine what life would have been without azure Fiats, mountains, you.

For eight straight months now, I have convulsed in vain to rid me of you, you of me. But no letter, no fire, no cockamamie ritual has deadened, lessened the persistence of your apparition.

I swore I would not let this revert to poetics...and so...

I miss you.

I could list all the qualities I found so frustrating, so endearing, from the booming snarl to the diamond earrings--the curl at your chest and neck, the dining table commandeering--the cyst of human kindness lying snuggled just below the finger tip...so many things I wished to praise and in praying, kiss, caress--but never did. And wonder now, would it have mattered? If more than my eyes had worked up the gumption to scream, “Shut up you silly man. You're perfect. I love you. Now listen” But nothing did, save one misplaced, abbreviated undoing...

For I did love you. Do love you. Will continue to love you, irrespective of iron wills, walls, and curtains. It was the unconditional lesson, after all, which underlays your ultimate teaching.

In these sparse months since our disbanding, I have huffed and puffed, and flipper-flapped, all in attempt to answer, "Why?" to quilt this scrap neatly into place, as a perfect geometric proof, cause equating effect. Which cannot be, of course. But I haven't had you to remind me of that.

And that is what, I think, I miss the most.

Not having those eyes to fix me still, to quiet my needless churning. To have no choice but to mourn your companionship as dead, though you exist, half-a-world away, in heated flesh and ragged bone. And knowing I, in my haste, have battered closed every door which might possibly have lead me back to you.

I have slept my life in a cold, empty bed. If I were to have Posted a Secret, this is what it would've read:

I still imagine you are the one who warms my sleeping bag at night...

and yet more ridiculous...

I still open doors with Christmas-like expectation of finding a note from you on the floor...

Why do I still need to "protect" you from my feelings with poorly-rhymed verse?

I love you. I miss you. I hope you are happy, peaceful, graced.