poetry, short story

Love ain’t a war – it’s the ONLY coming together …*


I surrender,

and render the rending of my

ending – and beginning.



I surrender,

and render the rending of my

ending – and beginning.



I surrender,

and render the rending of my

ending – and beginning.  So …


Kiss me …

assure me …

render me whole by rending my

end: my ending for you

now is my surrender, and my beginning …



* And he knew it was his job, this final step.  And he was puzzled a little why it had to be.  And he didn’t quite get it: the challenge it entailed.  And as he always misunderstood so much of his life, he knew – even then – the solution wasn’t straightforward as he actually assumed it would (or as he wanted it to) be.

And there was always a catch; a confusion; a movement or three forwards with a step or two back, that instead of a dance which would place them in trance, in tantric joy they’d so spoken about in bookshop that day, where big black soft sofas embraced their bodies in public and led them to remember “A Beautiful Mind”, and the viewing it meant, and the final goodbyes that made him so sad, and the pressure of lying to a long-time love, and how it broke his heart and his beautiful mind even further than it had already been broken by the sadness of love … and he was simply just looking to be a happy man who could be with the woman who’d made him the happiest ever … and it wasn’t even a question of comparison here: here, it was clearly black and white: on the one side the dark, on the other side the light – and in the middle, absolutely nothing he wanted at all.

He loved so many people so very much.  And he’d never stop loving them for the independence they needed.  But the love that he needed, the silken touch of her skin (and it was her skin that mattered; it was her skin he wanted; he finally realised his love was about her), the way she laughed and thought so bloody wild, and her blinding irreverence, and her refusal not to go wherever the thought might take her … and he loved and delighted and bathed fully in her promiscuity, and it wasn’t the word he needed right there, and the term he really needed was freedom of spirit, and in a way like school it was a term which taught lesson, and she’d taught him so much in her unabashed wisdoms.

And even in her absence she’d taught him so much.  And even in those terrible years of dark he’d remembered so much of what she taught him.

And the time she sucked him off in the car, and there was love in her eyes and in her mouth and her sounds and in her words, and the sounds she always made were words in themselves, and they loved their words and pictures, but it wasn’t only words and pictures: the sounds they each made were the looks they each glanced off the skin and bones and eyes of the other.

And so he realised, in fact, that he just had to surrender.  Whatever the universe now had in store was a warehouse of wisdoms he had to accept.  And if it included her, he’d need nothing else: he’d probably not need even to write too much, any more.

And if stuff got tough, and maybe it might, even after so much waiting and longing for her love, then maybe the writing might very well return.  But another alternative had already occurred to him: what if they both might work on their writings and paint up their beautiful thoughts via her drawings?  She was love incarnate as lover and muse – so just imagine the love her drawings could bring …

And he still kept her letters, and they still sat at home, and he dared not to uncover them for the tears they would bring, and the surrender he needed and the surrender he brought to the table of sex and passionate embrace, and the way that she allowed him to slip off her clothes and the way that she brushed him with the prickliness of her bush, and all these beautiful beautiful moments remained in a state of heated suspension, awaiting her permission to return to the fold – not like sheep as in cowed or horsing around but just simply that coming-home to the [heart]h which a life with his blessed beloved one had given him those four days, and if never again would never compare, nor ever come close, to anything else he would love.


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