I tell her

I tell her I am fine

That everything is good.

That my writing is going well. A thousand words a day, and not one of them sad.

That I am going out in the evenings. To the bar in town. The noisy one with the live music and the dealers and the tarts. I know the bartender by name. We have a laugh.

I tell her I can listen to the radio without blinking back tears. I can watch movies without reliving us.

I tell her I am happy

That I’ve met a girl.

That she is pretty and petite and likes to paint. And to please me.In lots of ways.

That she dances and sings and really cares about the planet. And that kind of stuff.

I tell her I am content

That I sleep soundly at night.

Well… most nights.

I tell her I am glad she has found someone special..

That I am delighted. Honestly. Truly.

For her.

I tell her I am glad.

I just lie

about everything.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

Already bruised

 

I will suffer this memory

Through countless,

sleepless,

endless nights.

Goodbye

hanging in every silence.

.

And me

Clinging on bravely

With my yearning fingertips

Seeking solace

In any smile.

.

And you

Your eyes

full of parting

And your lips

already bruised

with another man’s kiss

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from the web – uncredited

 

(my apologies for my the recording – hoarsely unwell and accompanied by a creaking, rambling house)

 

 

 

Public Knowledge Revisited

Public Knowledge

.

She tortures the stem of her glass,

Her anxiety spills over the rim.

The stain spreads like rumour

Darkening the space in between.

She has bitten hard on her lip,

Driven nails through her palms.

She has run up flags of distress

She has surrendered her charms.

.

The conversation rushes her ears,

A sea of voices without words.

She is pinned against the iron-grey sky

To suffer the mocking of birds.

She watches him carefully take

An aerial survey of her wounds.

He completes a nervous wide circle

And leaves her finally marooned.

.

Her hand crawls past the decanter

And clamps a manacle on his wrist.

A circle of thumb and forefinger

Against the hard rock of his fist.

There is an embarrassment of silence

As the conversation turns tide.

A panic of wings beating upwards

Escape the inevitable divide.

.

.

© The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from the web, but its provenance lost

A dinner party among friends.  The moment she realises what everyone else already knew …

 

Echoes

Do not be alarmed.

These echoes have no power.  There is no resonance in their whispers, no memory in their vibration, no siren melody in their soft, distinct reverberation.

There is no connection in their distant, plaintive, lost harmony.

These echoes mean nothing.

It is merely the sound of dust settling.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

Reply

You mailed to say you still miss me.

It was unexpected.  Out of the blue.

I imagined you frowning slightly as you typed out the words with your quick fingers, the soft click and clatter of your nails on the keyboard.  I saw you tucking a stray lock of silky dark brown hair behind your ear, the jewellery I bought you glittering in the lobe.

I recalled the perfect skin of your elegant throat.

I tried to remember your eyes.

I loved you.  So much.

But time, distance, and the shadows of another, have blurred all those once certain edges.

It has taken me three days to reply,

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

.

.

 

 

Something to be said

Life without her is easier.

He no longer needs to examine his shirts for crimson lipstick smudges or lingering traces of perfume. Or for her body’s delicious scent.  He does not have to set his phone to soundlessly vibrate in case she texts.  He knows that every date in his calendar is honest and justified. He has no need to disappear into his study to answer her needy mail. Or lower his voice when he bravely and hungrily calls her from the house.

There are no longer any secrets that might become unravelled. No chance sightings to somehow explain. No confusions over time and places and moments shared. No tell-tale receipts in his wallet. Or marks on his skin.

The heavy burden of guilt that he has carried without realising it has lifted from his shoulders and left him feeling light and free.  He thinks he has become a better man.  The stone in his heart has been rolled away.

There is something to be said for not committing adultery.

.

.

Painting : The Temptress by Jack Vettriano

 

 

Reflection

Reflection

You stood in your lingerie

Skin pale against black

All contrasts and curves

Your reflection in the mirror

Catching me watching you.

You smiled with your eyes

Dark brown and gentle

Contact without words

Your reflection in the mirror

Sensing me wanting you.

You lowered your gaze

Remembering something

That hardened your jaw

My reflection in the mirror

Knowing I was losing you.

Copyright : the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this poem at the end of a relationship a few years ago.  It was a real moment, and as I prepare this post, I can still see the room, the mirror, and my lover in my mind’s eye.  What I don’t know is if I invented having the sense of it being over afterwards.

.