The Beast of Love

When did I first know you, for you?

At what precise moment did I know exactly what you were, and what your name was?

At first, you were distant. I kept you at arm's length. My heart yearned to hold you,  but my head told me I was foolish. 

It has been so long since I allowed you to come this close. 

But all the sudden, I was running, jumping; no, soaring through the crystallized air on the wings of a magnificent dragon, each swoop and spin enthralling me, and making my stomach giddy with anticipation of what was to come. 

Enchanted, perhaps, by your magic, I did not realize that I was not flying,  but falling. 

The moment I recognized you, I wished that I had not let my feet leave the ground.
Down and down and down I fell, and it was far too late for me to cling to a mere fantasy. For you are not a dragon at all, but a vast ocean. Your waves are relentless and hungry, and immediately I am engulfed in an overwhelming current. One that pulls and tugs and keeps me under, and I can't breathe.
And yet, I am not afraid. I've been here before after all. I've learned to weather your tide the way an old piece of wood does. Every lap carving and bending and shaping me into something beautiful.
One day,  I will drift to a distant shore. He will pick me up and inspect me and caress me with his hands. He will feel all of the smooth places that were once rough and ragged. If I am beautiful enough, he might keep me.
But I've been here before in this ocean that is the world's biggest lost and found box. Though he keep me for the time being, he will eventually toss me back into the swells. I will be hurt, and even crushed. But he won't break me forever. I will coast along these unforgiving waves. I will change,  I tell myself. I will become more beautiful than ever! Has there ever been a time I have not been in this ocean called love?
It's an endless cycle. Perhaps I was only meant to become more and more beautiful and never belong to anyone forever. Perhaps someone will find me some day, and perhaps I will be broken and small, and frail. But perhaps he will pick me up regardless and care for me like I am a fragile flower. Perhaps.
Perhaps. 

Heavenly Song

Slowly, quietly, tenderly, gently

Calling me back from my zone

I lay there covered in a blanket of darkness

Not knowing where my head roams.

Then faster, louder, panic-stricken now

My darling, awaken, please, dear?

I'm lost in this slumber, this heavenly song

Leave me alone, I want to stay here.

Selfish, alone, I'm wondering why

Why am I all alone in this place?

There's light shining down, from all around

I look up and see a beautiful face.

It shines like the sun, no, brighter, I think.

And rainbows of love fall on me.

Go, says a Voice, you've had a glimpse.

One day, you will return to Me.

Then hunger, and hatred, and loss, and pain

They flood over me as I fall.

Falling down in a deep, dark well

Where I can't see His light at all.

Slowly, quietly, tenderly, gently

Calling me back from this darkness inside

I need you, he cries, and I need him too,

So slowly, I open my eyes.

Deborah Faith Taylor

~2008~

The Other Side

It was early morning when the ship took off. It was foggy. I remember the smell of the salty water all around me; the waves tossing up seaweed on either side of the watercraft. It was cold and damp: I remember all this. But I can’t remember this girl’s name. She tells me she’s my daughter: unlikely. She stands beside a woman who looks vaguely familiar, and tells me she’s my wife: possibly. I look around me; at the white-washed walls; the black and white checkered floor; the octagonal mosaic holes poked into the ceiling. This is not my life. I close my eyes… and remember.

* * *

It’s 1947. The ship glides through the fog like a porpoise in the water. I pull my hat- a navy blue cap- tighter over my golden curls. My blue eyes survey the muggy horizon before me. The fog means that we are closer to land: another twenty-five miles at least. Lt. Evan Song taps my shoulder. “Come inside.” He says. I pull my eyes from the grey waves to look at my lifelong friend: the friend that helped to build a tree house out of old boards when we were eight; the friend that played football with me in high school when we were 16: the friend that enrolled in the war right alongside me, “to take care of” me, he told my mother. We were like brothers or twins, almost. We did everything together. “Grub’s done.”

I follow him into a smoky interior filled with laughter and jovial talking. We aren’t men; only boys who don’t know what we have gotten ourselves into yet. I sit down and smoke a long cigar with my colleagues. I cough: I’ve never been used to the taste the tobacco left in my mouth. I smile and cough some more, and my friends all laugh. “Have a beer!” they say. I raise the bottle to my lips as they all toast me. But I never drink it before a sound like a firecracker, but deeper, issues from the curling fog.

* * *

There are some things that are hard to remember, just because you can’t, but there are others that are easy to remember, because you don’t want to. Like the smell of splintered bodies lying all around you; the moaning, silent screams of the boys who said they would keep your secrets; the death of your brother. These things are the easiest to remember, but they are also the hardest. My best friend had always said he would be there when I died. He never thought he’d die first. Neither did I. These memories I pull from my previous life are not ones I love to look back on, but ones that I know; the ones that pull me into something real; something behind the real world where I close my eyes and lie in a hospital bed; something on the other side.