PASSING FOR NORMAL

What’s left of life?

Empty is the life of a romantic, dark is a life of a poet, blissful is a life with no dreams… Table for one, trip cut in half and memories kept in frames …
So tender when he does not expect it. Sensitive when he will not want it. His alarming heart warming masculine vulnerability. Raw and child like when he cries, uninhibited. The tight lines around his lips that shivered when kissed .. That shivered when in rage… That shivered when touched, only by the skin on the back of her hand. That smirk he is left with, when struck by her smell, when deep in his thoughts. Almost blushing almost feeling her breath on his neck almost tasting her again. His naked tender musky face in the morning. His bare skin glowing without him knowing only to be tucked in under a coat of street dust at the end of the day. Under a coat of sorrows. His fine wrists juxtaposed to his overworked hands. His head resting in his arms when weary. His hair slipping between his fingers. The way he thinks he is immortal. The way he crumbles in pain. The way she turned out mortal. Her trace in his bed, her trace in his life, the trace she left on his chest with her carefully planned kisses… The trace of her face fading with every moment his eyes find rest. Every time he shuts his lids on the memory of her smile. An eternal sense of betrayal with every morning that meets him. His hollow existence meets him. His bare skin meets him. The tyrannous intimacy of winter fault of the warmth of her touch leaves him in despair.
Empty is a life with no feelings, dark is a life with no love, even with the alarming heart wrenching vulnerability that follows …