Your man should be in your lonesome arms

but we all get

lost somewhere along

the way to

something better

that never comes.

And where is your man tonight?

Hopping in and out of beds or

breaking down over the indecision of

leaving or staying,

perhaps he is trying to figure out

the ways to tell you how much he loves you

and maybe you’re in the wrong bed.

I might know where your man is tonight,

my darling,

maybe he was thinking about the perfect gift

or romantic adventure

but never had the push to walk outside of

his depression

to make your dreams come true.

I think I know where your man is,

wrapped inside his own head

thinking that life is filled with characters and not

people

never people

only characters scrolling by on a screen

and nothing is infinite or finite in life

it just is

and that’s love too,

even if we stretch it and break it

nothing is permanent

final

and nothing ends or begins.

I know where your man is tonight,

because he’s right here in that familiar bed

writing

another poem that will

grind hearts to bloody

messes,

and leave your heart weeping for him

with your hand reaching out for him

but he will never see it.

Your man is right there tonight,

but he’s tired

the wick is flickering in his candle

that lit so easily

for you

for so long

but it is dying now,

baby,

and he’s not sorry or living in regret,

even as the wick eats the last oxygen it will

ever

taste,

and he’ll miss the taste of that sweet oxygen you had

trapped between both lips

that he inhaled like a sweet summer’s afternoon spent

on a beach surrounded by friends and love.

Your man was right here

but that’s all a bittersweet memory

and on someone else’s time,

love is now is a collection of

do-you-remember-when’s

and

if-only-we-would-have’s

but that’s the tragic nature of it,

we don’t know what we have until we destroy it

and we don’t respect something until it almost kills us.

I heard a rumour about your man

and it sounds like he passed this way not long ago,

heavy heart and sullen eyes set in a face

featuring a jaw chiselled for victory

and the damage of hundreds of nights of sadness,

they say he’s time-worn but there’s a faint sound coming

from his chest and occasionally

a spark hops out

and dances across his bright blue eyes

rolling around a charming grin that

contradicts the loneliness he carries like a cross.

Your man no longer waits for you,

my dear,

and I’ve heard rumblings he has not been seen

in these parts for at least a few weeks,

and don’t you know they are saying

‘it’s for the best’

so don’t worry about your man,

my dear,

he’s got a head full of steam and certainly

there will be new love and he will love again

and I heard a rumour he isn’t hopping in and out of beds

like he used to,

because he’s a changed man,

my dear,

but he would never begrudge you for doing so

after he forged his manhood loving and losing

the same way

and there were certainly all the skills

– he picked up many skills –

that I am sure you will never forget.

There ain’t much left around here except the

little boys in the body of men,

my love,

but they will play with you in a rough and tumble way

like boys with their action figures

because they’ve been brought up to see you as an

object

a play-thing

to fulfill their desires and seldom yours

but you musn’t blame them,

my love,

they were hollow and filled themselves on

action movies with empty pointless characters

and they reflect it in their essence now

but they can certainly talk about sports or cars

and maybe even a couple of blockbuster movies

maybe they can do shots and drink some liquor

but probably mostly just beer and its

just as well because

they wouldn’t want to let out the repressed or

scary emotions they harbour in their hearts,

stifled and toxic.

I notice you’re looking for a man,

that certainly could not be yours as you have claimed,

but there was a man long ago

and I heard he left something for you,

somewhere here,

under the desk,

if only I could remember his name

– oh, here it is –

it’s more of a souvenir or trinket

and it isnt much to look at,

but he paid me as he saw fit to keep it here

and now my task is finished.

A short letter made its way into her

scarred,  tiny hands and

the thick and weather-beaten fingers fumbled

with the envelope as though it weighed as much

as his heart,

and the writing was nearly illegible,

as his penmanship suffered from being too slow for his thoughts,

it read:

There may be no other side for us, but how many sides does love need? I will not be waiting on the distant shore, as love has devoured us both, it only took longer on you. There is no pain like the present and no failure like the past, but love, love holds the key to the future. It would seem there is none for the nomad save her own loneliness, masked beyond a fierce independence. But maybe there was one. There shall certainly be shadows of one, but the body of his you possessed no longer remains. The sands of time have peeled away his layers and he has a fresh coat of paint now. The engine still hums a familiar tune, but the spark plugs will be unfamiliar to you. Love, love has gaped even the smallest holes and left us in a painful repose. Bruised hearts will mend and sprout wings once more, flying to some distant paradise for lovers that we used to inhabit.

“Where is your man tonight?” the clerk asked.