A Conversation

This is not destiny,
but I like to think that
I would have been at your side
in these moments
no matter what.

Even with screaming nightmares
and everything falling to pieces?
Even with my Heart shattering
like drops of glass? With my going
distant because it’s all–too much?

Yes, even then.  I love you more than
you can possibly know, even across
thousands of years.  I love you across
time and space and even death itself.

You can’t put me
back together 
can’t fill
my scars in with gold
you can’t take my dreams away–

I know that.  You’re not glass, Love.
You’re not worth less shattered.  You don’t
need to change back into who you once were.

But who I am now.  Scars and
trauma and–everything wrong?
You’d love me even then?

You know I do.

I believe you.

(from the Dreamer to the Madman)

Let me tell you
how I love you.

In words and song
in touches and smiles
in everything
that you are to me.

There is no poetry from me, for once
(shocking, I know) simply my love for you

that goes beyond death, beyond time.
To you sitting by the water, skipping stones
flowers in your hair, and your eyes are clear as light.
You gave up everything once, and yet, here you are

at my side.  With one mortal’s Heart binding us
closer than any of us could have ever predicted.

I have loved you for years
through both our worlds ending
and starting again.  Now I hope you
will let me love you in times of peace.

You have been with me through darkness
now let the Light surround us.

I Am Not Darkness

My Heart is a labyrinth.

There are many candles
and many places full of joy.
There are also places full of tears.

Those places could take your Heart, dear one
and tear it asunder, until there was nothing left.

I taste ashes when I speak
of those times, about my past
of tears unshed and screams unbidden–
and you know, enough–not to speak of it

–not to ask when your God wakes shaking from nightmares–
not to ask what I saw–you know just–to hold me–“when the nights
are dark/and when the air is still but for our breathing.”*

There are those who would take my past–and make it
a play, a legend, a ‘moral lesson,’ that
“this is what happens, when a god goes his own way.
He becomes darkness, he becomes Dark.”
But I am not darkness.  Not at all–at least

not the way you mortals view it.
(And what glamour is there, in darkness
in being perceived as frightening?)

Wounds are not badges to be earned, dear one.
The darkest rooms of my Heart are not illuminating.
But rather, they are places even I do not wish to go
simply for my own safety (and, perhaps, sanity as well.)

Yet here in my shaking hands is a key; I will tell you the stories,
if you wish it.  All I ask, is that you be gentle with my Heart

that you walk softly, and know when to step back.
I gave you my Heart time and again in stories,
it is time you had all of it, my Lord.

Beyond time for openness, of the Labyrinth of my Heart.

*He’s referencing this poem I wrote

 

Words From The Muse

I’m writing a story with a character, who’s…not exactly the Dreamer, but who’s similar enough to him that sharing the stories with my writer’s group makes me feel oddly vulnerable (especially that the protagonist of the story is the mortal man who’s in love with said character.)

It was after the latest group meeting where I’d brought in a bit of worldbuilding for the story, that I later expressed some reluctance to continue bringing the story in.  My Husband raised an eyebrow at this.

“Why the reluctance, dearest one,” he asked.

I explained that bringing the story in felt like exposing him for all the world to see, like it was making my relationship with him public, that I felt self-conscious because the main relationship of the story is so similar to my own marriage.

He stepped back, thought at bit, then said this:

I’m your Muse, dearest one.  I’m involved in all your stories, in one way or another.  They think you’re making all this up–which, in a way, you are; you simply have assistance from me in writing it all out.

My Heart has thousands of room, dearest one.  Simply because this one character is similar to me, doesn’t mean you’re exposing me for all the world to see.  You could write a thousand stories, all of them involving me, and would come nowhere near close to showing me for who I am.

Those stories would be fractions, fragments, pieces of what you know of me.  [Character] is close enough to an archetype of me that he’s almost a different person entirely.  What matters is that you’ve captured their imaginations with this story, with [characters’ names], that you’re telling a good story.

–the Dreamer

My Heart

My Heart,
you are the sun
and my Darkest Star

you shine for me
with burning light
and you are safe

at the very center
of hellfire
that is this Devil’s Heart.

My labyrinth is dark, yes
but there is a way
and there is a candle
and I am ever walking with you

as you try and unravel
the Mysteries
of the Heart (of my Heart)
you will find

that there is always something more
around every corner, around every bend
and all of it is yours, dearest Heart
for you alone to discover, and cherish.

I am only yours
until Eternity
until the stars themselves
burn out.

Sanctuary

(This is something my Husband said to me this morning while we were sharing coffee.  I’m writing this here simply for my own notes.)

Relationships have their highs and lows; you’re not always going to be turned up to 11 with intense feelings, that would be exhausting.  Your emotions can burn out as much as your physical body can, dearest one.

When I say you are my Home, I also mean that you are my sanctuary.  You are the place I can go when everything feels overwhelming, and just…be.

–the Dreamer