They use the word LOVE so loosely, corrupting the meaning and tarnishing the radiance of its beauty. I despise their blasphemy, for they have never loved and will never. Their hearts are dark, manipulating emotions for power, sex and money. They are void of morality, cold, without empathy. They whisper lies that sound so sweet — their victims fall into a vicious trap of deceit. Oh, Lord, please help them see it. Heaven, before they are totally broken and the tears run, please help them see it. They prey on the vulnerable, the already victimized, and the heartbroken then intentionally hurt them again. They use the word LOVE as a potent weapon leaving lives in ruin and utter devastation. They will seek LOVE when destruction is upon them, but they will not find it. They will ask for mercy in their final hour of death, but there will be no absolution for their transgressions. In their elder years they will suffer, gaunt with the darkness that condemns them. Blindness will strike them, yet they will clearly see the faces and names of their endless victims. They will reach for the comfort of angels wings, but there will be nothing. Despair will overtake them, and for LOVE they will give every and anything, falling on their knees and praying, saying: Please love me, Please love me, Please love me, incessantly, over and over again in breathless whispering.
It was pain that brought us together, and for many seasons we truly loved each other — but it was also pain that cruelly tore us asunder. My tragedy, is that pain refuses to leave me, though in quiet rooms I cry constantly, trying in vain to purge through tears what has become a part of me.
It was when we saw our mothers weep that we first knew heartbreak — but who would have known that when we grew older, we would break each others hearts then run to the comfort of our mothers arms; the pain would be no less even if we were directly forewarned. We kissed each other in the winter and held hands in the park when it was warm; we vowed to stay together forever, but forever fell apart. Tears fall on pictures of deceased mothers that can no longer comfort us, but we remember them through our thoughts and through loving words beautifully cursively penned inside of birthday and Christmas cards. We now understand their poignancy. We now fully grasp the extent of their pain through our own agony. We tearfully witnessed our fathers walk out of our lives forever; the sadness in our mothers eyes caused us to hide in dark closets and silently cry. We wept. Yes, because of our mothers hurt, we wept and said silent prayers and kissed our beautiful mothers while they deeply slept.
I loved her deeply, but adoring eyes hid things from me that others could clearly see. With a heart of sincerity I truly loved her, but in agonizing retrospect, she never loved me. I thought we transcended together through open communication and excellent intimacy. I thought she understood the depths of me; my love, my hopes, my pain, my anxiety. I thought I had found warmth in her, and heavenly tranquility — but it was a fallacy and not a beautiful mystery that I wanted to be true and held onto so desperately. Memories fade, and it was twice I was betrayed; first, by my own heart and my own eyes, then by the woman who wore a beautiful disguise who kissed me passionately and told me that she loved me as she looked into my eyes.
Anita Baker – No More Tears
The unwritten sentences of my heart are of love. passion, and sorrow. My lips yearn to feel again the exquisiteness of a passionate kiss. The beauty of her smile is indelible upon my withered soul. For so many seasons I have longed for warmth, but my portion has been listlessness and bitter cold. The depths of my heart are many mysteries untold. For just once, can I not taste of love in its unadulterated pureness? I was conceived in pain, and in pain is where I still remain. In shackles of loneliness and desolation I am restrained in heavy chains. The crow perches above me and recites beautiful poems to keep me going, and my withered soul prays for rain. I swear on all that is dear to me that I pray for rain. Even when I can see glimpses of the sun’s rays, the devastation of my soul does not wane. I swear it does not wane. I call on heaven to take away the pain, but the darkness swallows up the bellowing of my misery. My resolve is dampened, but yet I am here. For what purpose do I exist save to endure incessant torment for the rest of my days? After years of heavy sorrow there is no more weeping, and acceptance of one’s fate sets in. The bottomless pit seeks to swallow me whole and totally decimate me. Oh, Lord of my Fathers, look down upon your rugged son and see the extent of his desolation. Reverse time, so that I can once again feel the warmth of my mothers bosom. Let me go to a place where an angel awaits and unload my burdens as she kisses me tenderly. Let pain not forever be my portion but love, peace, and majesty. Restore to me what was lost when my heart shattered and the vultures circled over me seeking to consume the remnants of what once made me happy. Even the memory of the wonderful scent of her hair haunts me. I swear it haunts me. At night, she comes to me, whispering: my love is a deep well; draw from me — and I drink of her essence to sustain me. I swear somehow she sustains me. For hours, I meditate upon the beauty of her love in divine intimacy. We feel each other deeply in transcendence from mere physicality. In my frailty, she is the heart that beats for me; I swear she is the heart that beats for me. In my dry desolation, she is the oasis that awaits me. Haunt me, my love. Haunt me beautifully.
The depths of me are strewn over the ruin of my heart’s desire. To think that I could have love within my grasp yet see it fall into eternal fire. The soul within me is shattered glass, wounding me deeply in many hidden places unmercifully. The very marrow of my being cries out for an oasis of love, but still, love shuns me like a leper walking slowly into a vast city. Perhaps I held on too tightly to the thing that I wanted mostly. In my desolation there is no feminine touch or sweet words to comfort me. My tears fall on the remnants of brokenness. I am hungry and thirsty in a harsh wilderness. Oh, what I would give for one last kiss. I have become a wonderer stumbling in darkness; trying to find my way back to unconditional love in its pureness. The secret diaries of my heart want to remain hidden, but tears force me to write this. In a cold, dark, and desolate place I am my own witness. There is no substitute for a woman’s love. I tried to hide within my own heart, but my own heart calls out for her every time the depths of me are uttered. I try to bury memories daily with sad songs and intricately spoken eulogies — but memories refuse to die and go silently. I had hoped for a new resurrection within me, but her face is all I can see. Her face is all I can see. Haunt me, my love; haunt me, is what my soul screams loudly. Is there no reprieve for the unloved and the exhausted? Sleep does not come easily, if at all. I have had the carnal affections of many women, but it is the the whispers of only one that so moved me. Without even a touch, she captured me in totality. Her hair is like a black river flowing endlessly; her eyes are a wondrous mystery; her lips are the softness and sweetness of honey. I stretch my hands forth, hoping that I can capture a sliver of her aura. She is as beautiful as the joyous singing of archangels. Haunt me, my love. Haunt me. Let your love fall upon me and baptize me in the depths of your soul. The pain in my eyes do not lie. Passersby may stare at me with curiosity as I openly cry. Let them stare and draw near to the sound of my voice so they can hear the novel of the desolate and unloved. I desire a new resurrection secretly — but her face is indelible upon me. I am a leaf in the fall carried by the wind hoping to land on the peaceful river of a woman’s heart. I have sojourned in cold darkness for so long; for so long. Oh, to hear the voice of a woman singing a beautiful song. I was once a baby in the safety of my mother’s womb, carried for many months until delivery, and then I became a man only to see love leave me. I call on heaven to safely deliver me again, but this time from the clutches of torment and misery. The dark womb of the unloved is so cold and lonely. The dark womb of the forsaken is unforgiving and filled with misery.
In the interim, I look at the man in the mirror and speak to him; he whispers of lost love and unceasing suffering. He speaks of the pain that never ends. He talks about who is more precious than even the most rare diamonds and implores me to never betray the heart of a woman. Maybe I’ll see him again, but until then, I will internalize his sayings in deep contemplation. Before he left, he told me to remember him and he weeps at every inference of the tears that rolled down the face of his beautiful woman after her heart was broken. It was the way she looked at him with tears in her eyes, that so touched him. Through wails of regret, he admitted to me in secrecy that of her love, he is no longer worthy and that he sincerely wants her heart to heal and he desperately wants her to be happy; his whispers are that of a contrite man shattered and decimated in totality from his past iniquities. I try to comfort him with references of beautiful memories, but still, he cries unceasingly. He speaks softly when he speaks of her, reaching as if she is still there; and still, he weeps unceasingly. Through loving whispers, he weeps unceasingly.
Vicious words wound deeply through fierce lips, spoken vitriolically; without pause, long held sentiments of resentment flow from the tongue fluently — in an instant, love is retracted and utterly shattered, marking a new reality. A feeling of impending desolation creeps in, exploiting the soft underbelly of vulnerability mercilessly. Tears are shed unceasingly as tormented weeping is carried out in cold darkness silently. The heart is pierced with the dagger of sadness then ripped apart violently. The soul withers as tearful eyes gaze lifelessly. Sleep is not found ; the appetite wanes, and in heavy sorrow the body moves listlessly. Hopes of forever are shattered instantly; the utterly broken heart feels the pull of death’s gravity, and in a depressive state, the tearful broken hearted question their sanity.
Tonight, hold me and let me me cry long held tears of pain in my vulnerability. Let your hair brush against my solemn face and kiss me in my weeping. Allow me to find comfort in the warmth of your breasts and peacefully sleep, finally finding my elusive rest. Tearfully, let me tell you all the things that you mean to me in sincerity; let me breathe the breath that you breathe and passionately give you all the love that is within me. Let me wash your hair in the wonderful aroma of nourishing conditioner with chamomile and lavender and blow-dry your flowing river right after. I find solace in the simple things, like watching you roll the length of your hair with curlers or seeing you moisturize your skin with body butter in the vanity mirror. Just your presence alone saves me from mental anguish and its terror. I adore the subtle intimacy of your loving whispers; tell me your feminine secrets, for I am in love with you that deeply. Let me see what you see and feel what you feel in all the ranges of your sensitive emotions, not just when you are happy. With love, you restore the pieces of my once shattered heart, slowly and methodically. What can a mortal render to an angel, save what he himself is and hopes to be? I give you even the marrow of my bones, my heart, and the very essence of me. I turn to you my angel; I turn to you, and you look upon me with gentle eyes. The words I transcribe from the bowels of my mind would have to be written in the ink of white gardenias, crushed rose petals and tears to even begin to describe the deep intimacy of my emotions. I love you with a transcendent love that pierces the clouds and touches heaven’s gates; tonight, my sweet love — hold me, sing to me, and lovingly caress my face.