Playing with Matches

No, never. I love the absurdity and nonsense. I think of it as a pleasant escape from the dreary headlines in the morning papers.

My fingers are struggling to keep pushing this tired pencil.

The last letter I will ever write.

Thankfully, the time has come for me to escape this overwhelm-ing pain. The tragedy of love and unfathomable loss.

But not before I take one final glimpse of late afternoon beauty.

A golden glow of orange streaming through the lounge-room window. Framing your sleeping body stretched out on the sofa. One arm hanging over the edge—fingers resting on the carpet. Sparkles of light, like tiny diamonds, dancing on a dropped whiskey glass. Sleeping pills spilt and scattered.

The wonderful serenity of a silent heart magnified in my teardrop.

Sunsets never lie.

Straitlaced and judgmental. Boring adults who bite their lips before speaking. Too afraid to say what we really think and feel. Tiptoeing our way through inane dinner conversations. Playing a brand-new game. Where telling the truth has become the ultimate dare.

Such is the dilemma of perspectives and differing points of view. When standing on the edge of a precarious moral precipice. Wondering whether to jump or not?

Thinking the worst but hoping for the best—with eyes tightly shut. Realizing you could end up fucked no matter what decision you make.

But knowing that the fear of making a mistake—is the real mistake.

The only thing stopping us from flying.

not be fooled by my air of nonchalance, the hesitation in my words, for deep down it is all just a hopeless deception. It is my unbridled fear of rejection that keeps me trapped in this sorry state of denial. Can you see the cracks appearing in this wall I have built? Like a dam dangerously close to bursting—my love a raging torrent waiting to break free.

All that you write,

you know

it’s not right,

you move me

with written suggestion.

I know it’s absurd,

to be undressed by a word,

write me more

write me more—

make me yours.

The beautiful decay

of reason and logic,

held together—

by the pour

of a bottomless

vodka bottle.

I once called you

my little firecracker.

Lighting the fuse—

but not knowing

when to let go.

And no humanity,

when the rifle

is protected—

but not the child.

love of roses.

Delicate explosions of red bursting out of a black glass vase.

A hint of perfume that softly speaks of illicit sex.

Every petal unfurled—a poet.

Every thorn—a pen.

Extraordinary flowers that write a beautiful final verse.

Transforming even the act of dying into an exquisite art.