Old Writings and the Grief of Loneliness

I've been going through my old poems and writings about my life. I've written some good stuff and I want to share the words. Even after all these years, there are things to learn. I pull aspects from the past to help me recognize how far I've come and to, perhaps, mold tomorrow. 

The Creative Muses, the writing muse and the painting muse, are having a tug of war with me. Something pulls at me and I'm not sure which way to turn, which to work on, but something needs to happen with this life work.

Here is something I wrote after the last lover I ever had left me:

"Twenty Hours into the Grief"

The moon shines through my window like a huge streetlamp. Full, the rays spread out over the land, and if it were warmer, it would be a good night to dance naked.

I can’t, though. Not tonight. Not when my heart is aching, and I am feeling such a loss. Not when my soul suffers the fresh scars of emptiness and abandonment. The lure of the moonlight is only a tease of what could have been.

She reaches for me. She wants to hold me, envelop me until I am well. She wants to tell me that I am finally free; free to be me, free to do what I want.

But for now, the grief is too heavy. Her arms are not real arms, not warm arms, not human arms. Her arms are not the solid arms that once held me tight and made me feel safe and loved.

How can I possibly think of freedom when I am feeling terribly alone? I want to be held, but there is no one to “snuggy” me. I am alone in this big king-size bed feeling the loss. I can still smell his scent on the other pillow. Part of me feels numb, empty. Grief feels frozen on my skin.

There were things I loved about him besides the “snugginess.” He’d pat me like a cat until I practically purred. He played with my hair with a comforting touch.

He had his own special names for me. I don’t think he ever called me by my real name. When we were first together, he called me, “Girly,” until the other guys at work did so, too. When we were alone, he called me, “Tit-kit-pussy” and “Woofie.” Most of the time, he called me, “Poffie” (his spelling for it although he pronounced it “Poofie.”) It was kind of endearing the way he’d say these names. Sometimes he called me “Piglet” or “Pig-head.” He didn’t use his demeaning voice, but I wasn’t too fond of these latter two names.

I wonder what he calls his new love. I hope he uses new names for her.

Later tonight, the moon will pass over the house as I lie in bed. I’ll be able to see Her light through the skylight. She will remind me of things I am when I cannot sleep during these long dark hours. And although I will not fully listen, I am glad She is here.

I don’t want to think because to think is to feel and be lonely. Instead, I just might float on endless moonbeams hoping to get lost – but knowing I won’t. Perhaps, for now, floating in oblivion would be a good thing.

For over 20 years, my weekends and vacations were devoted to him. It feels strange not to have that to look forward to anymore. What will weekends mean to me now? What will I do for vacations? It feels strange. What do I have to look forward to?

I have always wanted to hike, but he never wanted to. This could be my year for hiking.

There are all the art projects sitting in various stages of work in progress and ideas never put into reality. Maybe I can be the artist I always wanted to be.

I will let myself dream on the moonbeams and forget this loss. I am glad he moved on. Now I can, too.