(Lonesome Heart)


b r i a n s g o r e

The moon is a spotlight for the night, ripples lit in white. Waves carry lightly 'neath night-birds in flight and the quiet lullaby of collapsing crests sighs quite nicely.

There is passion. Follow it. Passion cannot be confined to one or any other thing. Love is not constrained to a single aspect of life. Romance, even, holds to more than sex. Sex can happen between any people for any reason, but romance is red wine - candle light - brooding alone. Love is helpless, selfless, selfish desire. I desire passion. Passion consumes. Passion is hopeless, but never hopelessness. It's desperate, but not grasping. It's a closed rose - any color.

I sit in a half-lit home with my wine and mind. The cold wind moans. Pinot Noir alone; nostalgia; pasta for one - dark chocolate - National Public Radio - glazed eyes through my cigarette's fog - sounds haunt the blind. Too much wine - too many cigarettes - how many times have I said this? I can't sleep, but I can dream drunken hallucinations of company. The windows howl, fog seeps through the door, and my sight's gone bent. Mountain-side, my pen and me, surrounded by phantasms. I can't look up, they won't let me look down, so I glance frantically around. Light on the patio; shadows inside. The half-moon is hidden. The clouds go west. Silence but for the single creaking door.