After The Wellsborn

Nothing good ever came of it.

Dim lit wood moulded arches cascade over leather chairs n rustic tables adorned with tiny flickering candles, a highlight to meaningless conversation.

You weren’t the first I’d met, though others preceded, this maybe seemed the most promising of random situations.

Touching me gently, staring intently, pretending to really see… just me.

and in a passing moment you found me open heart & mind, receiving of your words and notions of what..could be.. real.

The room became further and further away when we spoke and in the instant of muffled sound I truly believed that maybe, just maybe this was a different song. 

Not a song about lonely decisions or desperate empty words like “marry me tomorrow 

“ or “let’s have a baby”..no no but why don’t we, lay in bed all day wrapped tightly in the warmth of our bodies, kiss and share stories of who we once were and who we hope to become someday. 

Or maybe become one in the enjoyment of two souls agreeing to merge for a time, without judgment of past unpleasantries or worry of a future preplanned in a carefully crafted checklists... just be free..

You held my hand, opened doors and I like a typical school girl heavily weighted what some are just trained to do anyway. 

So slick they can weave there way to achieve exactly their target with not the slightest intention of genuine care.

You shared in earnest, tragic stories of love lost and friendship squandered somehow knowing I’d never judge you but listen intently.

Somehow knowing I wouldn’t run from you, even if maybe I should. 

Open to the brutal honesty of a man acting without conscience or care of another because being deeply wounded creates the toleration of behavior and past occurrences of the people we hope can be better that their previous unsavory moments. 

But hope may not catch up with present reality and this I know but try to dismiss during our passing connection. 

Maybe my ego just wants to believe though my intuition keeps nagging with subtle warning. 

We ate tacos,drank whisky, and walked in the rain while u held my hand and reassured me in a whisper that I was “your kind”. 

The “good kind” you said and when I woke in the night swaddled in blankets, warm in the cradle of your arms and covered in affection, I wondered where would this end? 

You held me close and caressed me with care and kisses as if I could be a part of the future you speak of so often In passing conversation. 

Traveling Far east away from what seems are bad memories away from disappointment and pain, to a place where souls run free. 

Where you ride like the wind through lush mountains of green and let it pull you into places unknown to most. 

I look with question at the perfectly placed furnishings among vintage finds and wonder if i’ll see you there amongst the textured curves of ironwood or perfectly placed candles on the mantle. 

I try to find you in old photos on the wall & eclectic books about women, philosophy, and history but even the slightest vision is blurry and almost undetectable among these the perfectly placed props. 

No real story of you though it does appear quite interesting, mysterious, and layered...Maybe that’s the point.

There were many women before me and it seems they were recycled and left, again and again unless of course the ones who figured out your charm had no follow up conclusion. 

And I wonder again, is that what will be come of me? Recycled and forgotten without a second thought of who I am or why…or even my soul which is the best part of me that you will never know? 

In the car home. I listen as the rain washes away fear & nagging doubt, pulling from closeness to any man...

The rain whispers softly and though you are a complete stranger, I drift on that long ride home..Missing your touch and kiss…moments that temporarily seem so real. 

Could it just be reminiscent of another lost soul and letting go what seems to have have happened so many years ago...

You’re hot and cold but still…I wait knowing maybe anything worth waiting for requires patience. 

We talk again, I listen. Waiting for tones or words that will show me what to do. & I’m a short time, you’re back making me feel like a steady image dancing in your mind...

Or perhaps I’m just a prop along side the other perfect collectibles you’ve carefully placed and preserved until they no longer serve you. 

More truths you reveal slowly and in that process I somehow feel like the admission has brought us closer not realizing you are subtly warning me of your own dark soul. 

Again in your bed Lit by moonlit streams and bad passing dreams, I find myself drowning. 

body to body without the slightest connection of a soul. 

Looking past deep green eyes and carefully developed charm I still can’t find you in the crisp covers of down, Egyptian cotton, and hand crafted bed frame. 

I dream of nightmares lying awake it seems, a warning of who and what you are. 

But again, open eyes from sleep to convince myself that dreams will not catch up with the moment. 

Still hopeful we sip coffee make love and I continue as if this is my role for the moment. 

Conversations of politics, religion, your love of wood, and everything in between. 

Though I still cant see you clearly I wait with patience, hopeful. And one last night we dine and wine pretending terribly as you hold my hand before we part silently to an end.