The One That Got Away

[DeepAsleep]

Some of you may have noticed a running theme in the work I've been posting for the last two months, or so. The situation, if it matters, runs something like this. I knew a girl, a beautiful mess of a girl, for a very long time and the entirety of that time, I loved her and never told her. She was always dating someone I happened to know - a hazard of the town I live in. Everyone knows everyone, here, especially in the all-night coffee scene.

She'd maintained to many people that she could never date me and had told me so, herself. I thoguht I understood why and never fought it. I always figured her choices were her choices and leave it at that. So, I was her friend, I picked her up and put her back on her feet whenever she needed it and allowed her to do the same for me and we were close, even if we weren't lovers.

It happens that one night, when she was crying and lost that she stared me in the eye and said something to the effect of, "What is it you're not telling me?" I did my hemming and my hawing, my backing and my filling and did my level best to avoid the question. I am the master of slipping questions, even direct ones. I can sneak around just about any query tossed my way. Except when it comes to her. So, she nailed me down and when even, "No, I don't want to talk about it" didn't work - I'm a sucker for a crying girl - I told her everything I felt, with the express caveat of, "I know how you feel about me, from what you've said and what I've heard around. I've always known and it changes nothing."

I loved her for her, not for me, and that's all I figured there was to it. I didn't seek martyrdom, or any special treatment for my feelings, I just told her that I would always be there to love and support her.

You can imagine my shock when a few weeks later, she mentioned feeling much the same for me. We moved in together, our relationship died of bills and bad luck, and she split. I've been going crazy ever since, but she's been back.

I'm lost, ladies and gents. I don't know which way is up, where to find the floor, or how to keep on chugging correctly. All that is sort of peripheral to what I'm curious about, here.

~~~~

Where are your poems about the one that got away? I want your odes to lost love, your tales of personal crazy. Tell me your stories about the back of their head as they walked away. I want to hear it all. Young love, thoughtful love, mature love, it's all fair game.

~R

 

[annaswirls]

the ones

Thanks for sharing that story, DA...

it is a tough road, all paving the way to the one who stays...

I think half of my poems are written on this topic. I will go find a few. Most of them are god awful and I have them stored in a box under my bed. Some are still here.


I hope you get some good poetry from this, and believe in your heart that things will change, they always do

~anna

 

[annaswirls]

realizing most of my one that got away poems are not at literotica!!!




204 bones

204 bones
by annaswirls ©

~
individual piece of the pair
multiplied
always one

like 204 bones that lie
waiting to be reconstructed
before floating soaking sinking
into the below

I cannot find you





For hours upon

by annaswirls ©

~

For hours upon river weed surfaces
we tread over knowing
somewhere below our feet
lie sunken answers to all the

might have beens
that stare back hollow faced
their blackened fingernails
claw our soles

Twice we watch
their tendrils wrap our legs
that dangle drunk
with the fermented seduction
of open ended possibility

We will them to dissolve
test the strength of
our acceptance

this is all there is

one breath before submersion.
we count the bubbles that rise
follow the last ones into
delerious contentment


this is
all there is


~

another one

It is not tortoise shell
by annaswirls ©

~

It is not tortoise shell, this comb
that stops paralyzed in the air above
my crooked part, forgetting for a moment
that you are gone, forgetting
I am a woman without reason to comb tangles
from her hair.





last for the morning

Something always survives...
by annaswirls ©

~

Something always survives the death of winter


Tonight they have surrounded this town in flame and fear.

Yet I will wear no disguise
to trick your spirit into leaving.
Fully dressed in open skin I invite you,
join me inside.

The trill of Chopin's keys matches the leaves' flutter
that promises
I am with you
signed in yellow and gold.

I too wear these colors of welcome,
haunt me always
tonight with me always, now.

 

[annaswirls]

one from a long time ago


I write here in a book with a broken spine
and a broken heart
I have not loved myself in months
I have only loved you inside of me

You have ripped me so suddenly
tossed aside without shaking the dirt
from my roots

This part of me who so willingly
submitted my self to you,
became you when being me was so unbearable

You have seen me in your reflection
palms pressed to glass, eyes looking
only into your own, making love to yourself
as you call out my name.

You have lied as if you yourself have chosen to believe
so must I
I have so willingly taken you and lost myself
again, and again

I do not mourn for the loss of you
as much as grieve for this return of me
this ugliness filling in all of the spaces
you have left empty

My own reflection is a lie
My happiness, an illusion

You who have fed me your lies and love
mouth open wide, I drank you in willingly
Belly Bloated, not with excess but with starvation
You filled me past my limit

I needed rice water spooned by the mouthful
you fed me a banquet with a shrimp fork
dessert tray swallowed whole,
never digested, never absorbed
still starving, weak

You saw yourself in my eyes
suffering with betrayal, deceit
You played me like a script
allowing me to play the roll "unnamed woman"

rewriting your past, this time
You leave, and you leave and you leave

Is this how you imagined our ending?
My body crushed under tires
Under metal wheels severed in two by a passing train
passengers nod and doze, morning papers falling from fingertips

is this how you wrote me into your screenplay
Have I learned my lines
Have I taken your direction?
Can I go home now, I think I remember the way,
I used to live there, you know
I know my way by heart
simple turns back to the hell
you took me from

I followed so willingly
trustful blind flying under your
loving navigation

You fed me your passion
and I soaked it in
dry bread suddenly moist, softened
crumbled, dissolved

This is not a new screenplay
I have seen this before and
I chose not to recognize the
characters, the setting, chose to ignore
all the obvious foreshadowing
the whole audience sees it coming
shakes their head at my naiveté

so willing to fall into this role
an easy actress, perfectly cast

You said this, after apologizing for the ultimate insult
"You are so easy. Easy."

I took this as I wanted to take it
as you promised you had meant it
Sweetened with claims of love
saccharine sweet, non-nutritive flavor
left bloated, unnourished, weak.
unprepared for my final scene
lights go down suddenly
left on stage alone

 

[annaswirls]

September 22, 1989

this one got away, then came back to stay.


this is as is from 1989, I might just edit it! Now I am going to go before I get too crazy here.

A week without you

Monday
the single bed sheet sticks to my back
and the silver dehumidifier can’t even dry
the beaded floor sweat.
a slug slides across the linoleum
and I think of you.

Tuesday
why is everything here blue?
the midnight cadet holds the periwinkle cornflower
under the turquoise sky
Who says blue is blue
and what color were your eyes anyway?

Wednesday
Full of confusions decisions
hot warm cold
colored white delicate gentle gentle
Peeling away the lint I feel as if I have lost
something rightfully mine
this time, I don’t mean you.

Thursday
you are late
and where are you sleeping tonight?
in my memory I dream I slept with my past-
he has greatly improved
we lost power to the hurricane.

Friday
the air is so goddamn wet
I lit a candle and it wouldn’t burn
so I hold it over the blue flamed stove
and drip the hot wax onto my hands
because I miss you

Saturday
In another dream
I gave birth to Thursdays blue eyed child
I named him Damascus
an oasis between mountains and desert,
it just rained and rained.

Sunday
I planted Damascus
in a muddy rock garden
along with a wax mold of my left hand
and a single sheet of blue lint.
Where are you sleeping tonight?


September 22, 1989​

 

[WickedEve]

DA, I understand. And where do I start. After my husband left the kids and me for the third and last time, many poems were dedicated to bob bob. There are bob bob poems, bob poems, and poems about him without the bob name. But he rarely inspires anything now. He basically doesn't exist. Now, many of my erotic, I'm hurt, I'm upset, I'm lustful poems center around my Master. When he walked away in Jan, I wrote Jilted Prayer:

dear god
bring me a man to adore
in the shuddering of night

pendulum sighs
that whimper above me
to and fro sweetly

i want him half century or more
and silver hair

dear and dreadful god
fell him from his cloud
i need impact
impressive bone crush at my feet

i will gather him
suspend him
and adore him

amen


He came back a week later. He couldn't walk away after 5 years. He was willing to risk many things to continue to be with me. Yet, I'm not happy. It's a long, complex story like many of us have. But the entire experience has left me with many poems and many emotions.

 

[Guest]

D.A. - sorry to hear about your girl. Stuff like that is tough, but eventually works out, but it does feel like someone incinerated your heart and damn it, it takes burns a hell of long time to heal.

I have an inclination for tattoos (although very few would know since I practice very good wardrobe engineering). Especially bold and deep ones, which are inked after huge emotional events in my life—they signify loss and death. One or two would represent the ones who escaped me and/or my bullshit.




Vertex Love


I'm ashamed to admit
I drive by
always looking to
see if you noticed

But no, of course not

Those damn mini-blinds
are closed to me
as they always
will be and should be

With itchy looks
half-satisfied

I turn up the radio
listen then remember
Depeche Mode sang
World In My Eyes

I do believe,
I've shut mine

Through unconsciousness
I left logic and reason
as I told you to forget
but never explained why

Carelessly,
there wasn't a reason

Like there isn't one
for curious looks
or fleeting itches
it just happens
from time to time

Sometimes,
I want you, honey

To be lip to lip
naked in rainstorms
licking drip drops
of positive passion

I've forgotten,
it's been awhile

Since I tasted
warm self-regard
been moon-eyed
in your vertex love

"Is that reason enough?"

 

[Tathagata]

Promises Kept


I put you to bed
as I used to each night,
with a love that transcends
your silly rules,
worries,
morals.

The rules of men
have no place in the infinite.

This gift we've exchanged
will echo past
the concept of time,
of Us..
The striking of the creation bell
rings forever.
The vibrations cause heartbeats.

I place it on your pillow
like a midnight talisman
to cradle your thoughts,
a womb for wishes,
wolfbane, worrybane,
anxiety held at bay,
only pixies of reassuance
whisper sweetdream poems in your ears.

I tuck you in,
smooth your hair and seal you
with a forehead kiss,
planting seeds of hope
within that little girl who was told,
"You'll never be pretty."

I cover you in gossamer gowns,
woven from hummingbird sighs,
and hang compliments
like ornements,
from my hammer-struck heart.

A lullabye
of ancient things,
sung in forgotten tongues,
crooned to call the wee folk
you love so much.

We all gather round
siping thistle nectar,
and I rock you gently, joyfully,
into happiness.

My love,
my love,
always my love.

You rest unaware,
wrapped in my brittle-spun sugar dreams,
but tomorrow you shake them off
like waterdrop fantasies,
and I must once again
wait
for your moment of weakness.

 

[DeepAsleep]

Thank you all and keep them coming.

~R

 

[DeepAsleep]

You slept here,
night before last.
you tossed in my sheets
and snored like hell.
It didn't keep me awake,
seeing as I couldn't have slept.

It's dark in there,
but I know your face dim
and I know it lit.

Pillow still smells of you.
It's alright.
You didn't stick around for Sunday.
It's alright.
You haven't called since.
It's alright.

(I'm a liar.)

 

[Tathagata]

Mystery


I awake some mornings
and wonder how it is
that I'm still here,
when all that I am
was destroyed
with your departure.

 

[Angeline]

Because time does not heal
all wounds in spite of every
happy ending you're read,
loss cannot be romanticized.

There is no revelry in the fact
of absence. A door shuts abruptly
or an accretion of leave-taking
slowly erodes the space in a day

that was you or you or someone
else. Who can say this or that
one when every one has moved
to the inner world, and left only
intermittant echoes where I walk?

Today is just another day
my father said, and now he
speaks to me in memories. I can't
always recall my sister's face

though at 7 or 14 an expression
still makes me laugh, and even
the living voices have static,
fading like long-playing records.

I have these poems. I can hold
your hand through all this winter,
so something isn't lost. Love
still floats by in random bits

of faith or conscienceness, even
one act of kindness can dream
me into the borderlands of what
was or what might have been.

 

[PatCarrington]

Signature Rose


I am half.

It is all about the leaking.

Through the bitter search,
fitting has refused. Still,
when that certain time of night comes
with its palms rubbing, its soft seduction
stinging my torn back, I waver

and drop again to absorb the darkness,
the skin and whispers of its whip. Empty
in the wings. Fallen, waiting

for invitation to rise up and meet
a press and hold, old tatter
and shattered delirium
nursed in a tourniquet
of tangled sheets. Waiting

to be stitched by a curl and drag
of fingers down spine, an etch
to ribs, a winding trail of tracks
to an open scarlet scar. Waiting

for the pull and knot
in one tying thread of breath.
A healing crosslace of touch
and time.

 

[foehn]

from Promises Kept...
...

I tuck you in,
smooth your hair and seal you
with a forehead kiss,
planting seeds of hope
within that little girl who was told,
"You'll never be pretty."

I cover you in gossamer gowns,
woven from hummingbird sighs,
and hang compliments
like ornaments,
from my hammer-struck heart.

A lullabye
of ancient things,
sung in forgotten tongues,
crooned to call the wee folk
you love so much.

...

Goddam, that's a fine poem, Tath.

The others are quite wondrous, also.

But damn, it's painful to reflect upon. I've noticed that when I'm writing something out of pain, emotional devastation, whatever one wants to call it, my writing tightens up, and I tend to lean heavily on structure and form to carry me through. Considering the process is interesting, and sometimes lets me escape from thinking about what causes the process.

The Bullnettle Flower was my last dash at this particular topic as it relates to me. There are several others here, and I suspect, yet some unwritten ones.

/f

 

[trendyredhead]

I'll probably regret even posting, but...

The one that got away was during the summer of '93. Just so happened that was the same summer our fair city of St. Louis (and much of the midwest) was under water.

We met on one of those phone chat lines. Met in person a week later. Turns out I'd been a fan of his radio show for quite some time. Was head over heels for this guy, and he for me (or so I thought). He lived just two blocks from one of the major rivers in the area, and on our first date, we walked along Main Street, watching the floodwaters.

After a month, he was talking about driving to see me at school (I went to college out of state) or flying me home to spend the holidays with him. Then he told me he'd accepted a transfer from MO to OH, and would be moving in 2 weeks.

He picked me up from a weekend retreat the night before he left. I was sleep deprived and crabby, and sad because I didn't want him to leave but didn't know how to tell him, so I was just bitchy. He said he'd call as soon as he got moved in to his new apartment. I never heard from him again.

This was before the internet was readily accessible and robust, unfortunately. But two years later, when we had internet access at school, I found him. It took me quite awhile, but I found him. I emailed him, and asked him why he'd never called. He never answered me.

I still keep tabs on where he is (the Internet makes that relatively easy), but we haven't talked since.

Joe will forever be "The One That Got Away." I actually have an entire book's worth of poems written for and about him, with a dedication to him. I dream of the day I get it published and send him a signed copy. Not that it would change anything - I'm pretty sure he's married now - but just for closure, I guess. Kind of like proving that something good managed to come out of this, even if it wasn't a lasting relationship.

So on to the poems... Here are two I have posted here.

Afraid to Remember was written about a beautiful summer day he spent at my house, baking me a Harvey Wallbanger cake and snuggling with me underneath a quilt for hours, kissing and talking...and the pain he left with his unexplained disappearance.

Lost and Found is about my fruitless search for him, as the waters crested and receeded from the flood.