On Muses

onmuses“The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” – Hunter S. Thompson

A chill washed over him, like icy fingers dancing their way up and down his spine, followed by a sudden emptiness. It was like the world had just left him, like his spirit had just vacated his body. He felt dead. Numb. He could have said he wasn’t feeling any emotions, but despair, utter, hopeless despair is definitely an emotion. If he was dead, then he probably shouldn’t be feeling anything. And he was feeling something. Though he wished he wasn’t.

All that remained now were memories. Cold, distant memories that hung on to him, leaving their marks on his soul even as he tried to push them out.

His soul…

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1060 W Addison

It was a train ride,
a journey from sky to earth to sky and back again
bound for a tomorrow becoming yesterday
and another page in a book that only we would read.

It was a day on a rooftop in the wind in April,
cheeks rosy and chapped,
the sun veiled in grey
that swept across a city sky under an
ever-present threat of storms,
storms that came and went far too often
and lingered too long;

you were exactly as you could be, and only what I wanted

—nothing more, nothing less—

a mystery unraveling,
and I couldn’t stop reading:

there was always another page to turn,
another chapter to start,
another sentence to follow to its end
while another—while you—waited patiently for me to read it.

But I wasn’t patient!
I wanted more,
always more…

but never more than you were willing to give.

It was an evening among towers and empty streets,
our own private castle to explore until
all that was left to find was our way home
and to each other.

I found myself reflected that day
in brownstone and steel, glass and traffic,
in light and noise and motion,
and in you;

you, there, always there,
standing out among
a million voices
and a million faces,
reminding me,

that so was I.

This place I never meant to find,

this time I never meant to be in,

holds me against my will

and I linger longer than a moment

in years gone past and lost;

it’s all I can do to not reach out,

to stretch out from the lonely dark

with fingers broken and bruised

from clawing at this prison of hope,

to see if you, if any part of you that

isn’t only memory now might be there–

but I know, to do so would be my folly,

and finding again the deafening roar

of an anger I’m not sure I deserve

I’d only retreat, defeated again by

the reality that is me,

the reality you created for me.

There was a time, a moment

when light and color–when you–washed away

all the greying shadow I cast in the world,

and melody takes me there far too often,

more than I’d like to admit,

but now…. now there is only me

and memory, thunderous and vibrant,

and painful, not for what it is,

but for what it no longer isn’t;

and this echoing silence fueled now

by rage and hate and the blame of

love misunderstood and cast aside

for lies that were never told

is all that remains of a forgiveness

that was asked for and offered

and then stripped away before it could breathe.


I wanted to write tonight,

to pull from the void

an expression of

the emptiness in me right now

and tell you how I feel,

to say something that mattered,

that might make a difference,

and change this moment

for both of us;

the problem is…

the void is just that,

and all I have to offer you

is nothing.