The voices in my head
told me, today
they want to see other people
and I don’t know
if I should be jealous
because I have been wanting
to hear new voices
for quite a while.
For a thousand-thousand years
my hands have held tightly
holding weapons of self-destruction
or bouquets of hope
squeezing the cold and unresponsive hands of life lost too soon
clawing at dark and imaginary walls
prisoners of silent screams echoing through time.
My hands have caused pain,
and they’ve soothed wounds.
My hands have been instruments of wonder, building legends from mist and recording prophecies in stone.
My hands have been unwelcome guests in my own pockets, useless and despised.
Given a true purpose my hands become valuable, irreplaceable tools.
My hands had never touched a home
until the day my secrets poured through the gate they formed over my face, and into her endless eyes, trapped by her attention my mind was a formless void
and she spoke, and all was light.
Raw ingredients in the hands of a culinary master know the pleasure I felt that day, when she took my hands and my pain and transformed me into a work of beauty, a composition of cultured cohesion.
She had been waiting for my hands, my lifetime of a thousand centuries clinging desperately to secrets, lonely and aching.
She took me, her long-awaited love, and kissed my wounds out of my hands, away from my brutish touch and into the gentle garden of her care.
She lifted the veil of mortality from my eyes and revealed to me my personal divinity, and in my newfound godhood
she found her intentions and unspoken desires made alive by my hands.
And I try harder at this than anything else, because every heartbeat leaves an uncertain pause,
will this be the last?
How it feels to love another
more than you can explain to yourself
is a tiny taste of hope between breaths
lingering in the space where
nothing is permanent.
With ferocity and gentle administration
my hands have given what has never
been mine to keep, emptying thoughts and words, passing around plates of poetry, plenty for everyone,
take what you will.
I’ve lived this dream long enough
to have absolute knowledge
that the eyes in my heart will close
the love I live will end
and she breathes and I
take it personally
when she mumbles in her sleep
I am convinced it must be a dream of me, of my touch.
And I know the song I want to sing, on the day she leaves, I know the words I will say when she dies, because I know that our love has terms and conditions, there’s an unknown expiration date.
One day, one of us will leave the other,
too soon, too soon, it will always be too soon, if it was a million years away it would be too soon.
Until that day we enjoy what cannot last
We have fun. We laugh. We try. We give.
Honest and purposeful effort, all day every day. We put aside our individual
And we focus on collective
We wake each day and steer the ship toward bedtime, and we work on getting there together.
We have our problems, my hands are not the only ones full of the past.
We’ve both carried too much.
We don’t promise forever, we don’t know how long this universe will last, if it’s real at all, if anything is real.
But, I tell her, I will find you,
no matter where you go.
She answers, I will wait,
no matter how long.
I know this love story seems familiar, you’ve heard the tale a billion times and a part of your heart wants to believe and a part of your mind knows it cannot be true
And when I say she’s different from anything you know,
I’m trying to make you understand that I’ve seen life, I’ve searched the universe
She’s nothing you’ve seen, she’s nothing you will ever see, a unique and private bit of magic, made only for me.
In her love I become everything.
I am only for her, nothing without her, incapable of losing with her by my side.
When I say we have something special
I mean we have something that has never existed, in this life or any other, in any time or place, what we have has no common ground with any fairytale or legend, what we have is insanely solitary.
This is not rhetoric.
This is real, as real as my hands, as real as her hair wrapped in my hand, as real as her voice whispering fiercely in my ear, as real as I have never been away from her.
What I’m saying is that my past, my life, my damage, my hands and the hurt they hold are sacred in her love.
I’m telling you that I can die
right now, happy
blessed beyond belief
This life is perfect.
[Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]