Sex, God and Rain

and the dream ebbs away...

Yeah, it did. It ebbed away. Like how the ocean wetly licks your toes on the hot sand, and then suddenly pulls away, leaving your feet buried in the mud. It was like that. 

I often thought of these things on my solitary walks through the pastures of the old farm. For hours I'd get lost in the countryside there, wandering through the loneliness like the rushing wind in the trees. It hurt. But it was also beautiful. I was like a ghost then. No more real than my shadow, which silently followed me through those splendid empty places.

and one day, 

he simply left himself behind,

and followed the sky,

becoming a creature of the lonely places.

I wrote a lot of poetry then. Or maybe I should say, I THOUGHT a lot of poetry. More or less, after she left, my life became a lonely poem. And the man that used to be me became the blank page it was written on.

she is holy,

like winter shadows,

or the touch

of water

on skin.

and every time

i see her,

i am born again.

Only now, I never saw her. Except in my mind and dreams. And her ghost in the old, empty farmhouse I now haunted alone. Listening, always listening, for some ancient echo of her there.

But the only sound was always the wind. The wind was relentless in that Kansas countryside, forever prowling about the house, rattling the doors and windows as if it wanted to come inside with me.

As the coffee pot screamed, for you see, I like to heat water in a kettle the old fashioned way, I again remembered. I was pacing across the creaking wooden floors at the time.

we were dreamers. we spent rainy weekends making love and reading poetry. i tasted every part of her. became lost in her. the constellations, the very cosmos, itself, was only the light in her eyes.

but stars fall and dreams fade in the light of day. and sometimes, for magic, a broken heart is the price you pay.

But maybe it wasn't her fault, I thought, as I poured steaming water into my cup of instant coffee. You see, I had become too despondent to go to the store and buy real coffee. But that was okay because it gave me a reason to boil water in my old kettle.

her heart was wild

and liked to roam.

as if  looking for its home.

I thought about that at the old, cluttered table by the dirty window as I was drinking my coffee then. And it sort of made sense.