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HEALING (A Ballad)
I think I can look back now
without my life's blood
draining
from my cold body.
There was a time
when looking back meant
Pain
that left me
without breath,
sight,
sensation
(Other than the pain).
I'd always felt a sort of pity
for the shadows I could see
within your eyes.
Your efforts to deny your need,
your loneliness,
moved me to offer friendship.
A comradeship,
I was your
Buddy.
That first night
took me by surprise.
You played the rescuer
that Friday night
in Rusty's Bar.
When after work, we stopped
with all the rest
for just one drink.
Remember?
One of the
guys insisted
he was going home with me,
and you spoke up from another table,
"Don't forget you're giving me
a
ride home in your car."
The three of us went on to dinner,
you played a waiting game.
Out played the other
guy by far,
he finally left.
I thanked you as we laughed
at his chagrin.
I drove you to your van,
and
said, "I'll see you Monday morn."
You smiled and waved,
I drove away but . . .
was halted by the sound of someone's
horn.
Electricity had kindled
more than laughter.
I felt it but denied the fact
and blamed it on the booze.
When I looked back and saw
your face,
the look in those blue eyes,
I knew I couldn't leave you there
with loneliness
your sole companion.
The whole weekend,
with none to share.
So, "What the hell," sez I to I,
"What are buddies for
if not
for comfort
and companionship?"
He saved me from an evening
with a boor.
I'll ask him over just to talk.
We'll
have desert.
I was still certain
imagination
made it seem he yearned for more.
I asked and he accepted,
I felt a tingle.
Anticipation.
No!
He's only lonely!
But when I led him to my door
he stood so close,
he could have touched me,
tho' he didn't.
Admitting to myself intense desire,
I leaned my head against the
frame.
Entering my home with him
so close upon my heels,
I shut the door
and in the dark
turned round
into his arms.
I felt
that I'd come home.
And then he kissed me.
And I saw...
Fireworks!
No words were spoken,
none were needed.
As if we'd known,
all along, that this would happen.
Another
time, far in the past,
our lives had been enmeshed.
This wasn't new,
we'd been here before.
All lovers feel
the same,
don't they?
Unique?
No words of love
were said that night.
My effort to deny the whole experience,
and try to keep it in the context of a
One Night Stand,
drained my energy,
and left me in the morning
straining
to be casual and calm.
I washed my hip length,
blue black, hair . . .
and felt him watch me.
We spent
the weekend on his boat,
sailing to nowhere.
After work on Monday,
he followed me home.
Every night that week
we spent together.
But all must be in secret
he said.
No one must know.
Though we worked together,
daytime
must find us merely Buddies.
Thus began a pattern.
Eventually we lived as man and wife.
Told each other stories
of our lives.
Shared the good and ugly
buried deep within our souls,
the nightmares, and the dreams
that made
us
One.
I told him that I loved him
in too many ways to count.
I felt his love for me...
Unconditionally.
I thought with time
the secrecy would die a natural death.
That happiness would force him
to proclaim.
We even talked of marriage,
planned to sail around the world.
And then,
one night,
I felt the birth,
of
Pain.
I drove straight home from work that day
but didn't find him there.
He's late, I thought,
I'll
do some things that I have been
neglecting half a year.
But as night fell
uneasiness began within my breast.
I
dialed the number on the boat,
and heard his voice,
at last.
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The games began in earnest.
My suffering increased.
My life revolved around
the answer.
The question
was...
where would he be tonight?
Beside me in my bed of nails
or on his ship with furled sails?
Abuse is
what it's called today,
what did I do?
What did I say?
The nights that he was with me
became exquisite agony.
He'd lay beside me, true enough,
but wouldn't touch
me.
And in my blinded desperation,
attempts to gain some explanation
met with...
Silence.
And always,
fore I shut my eyes
I'd say,
"I love you."
One day I overheard him
deep in conversation
with another
worker on our office floor.
"I've sold the boat,"
I heard him say.
How could he do this thing,
I thought,
he loved that boat the way that he loved me.
Loved me!?
You say.
But even now I know he did.
There
was a sickness deep inside.
He somehow felt he had to hide
from happiness and love and all of that.
If I could
love him just enough,
I knew,
he'd see that he deserved
to have the life of love
I offered.
My arms ached
so to hold him.
My body cried to love him.
Still, he drew away.
He rented an apartment
down the hall from
mine.
Parked his van beside my car out in the lot.
I left the office, five o'clock,
drove home in case he chose
to stop
and talk with me outside my door.
More often not.
I'd slowly turn the key within the lock.
Depression
drove me to my bed,
alone,
by six o'clock.
Now and then the phone would ring,
and in my state of dull
somnambulation
I would answer praying for one thing,
a word from him.
He'd say, "Are you alright?"
"No,
I'm not", I'd answer,
"Please spend the night."
I'd beg.
"Just lie beside me,
Please,
and hold my hand."
I found myself in a financial bind.
He loaned me money,
then said,
"Don't pay it back,
never mind."
And in my sick dementia,
my grasping at each tiny little straw,
I told myself
he loves me after all.
Now
both of us
were sick as we could be.
Give me one year, he asked,
to straighten out my head,
and yes, my
heart.
Give me one year, he asked,
to get myself together
and determine whether
we can make it yet.
Give
me one year, he asked,
without entreaties.
And then I'll come to you. We'll make a brand new start.
Why couldn't
one of us just break it off completely?
Something forged a bond
that still exists unto this day.
Ten months into
that year he asked me for,
I went into the office
and discovered a commotion.
All about some clerk that worked
one floor below.
It seemed a dozen roses had arrived.
When pressed she blushed and answered,
"I'm engaged, last
night, you know,
his name is Frank . . ."
My God, how much more
Pain
will I endure this life?
I confronted
Frank that day.
White as a sheet, my question was,
"How could you let me find it out this way?"
I looked into
his eyes,
what I saw there made my heart bleed more.
I could only whisper,
"You love me, even now,
What's
this all for?"
I didn't get an answer,
as you might guess.
I turned to sex
to dull the pain
and yes,
Gordon was his name.
Of course he's uninformed,
as far as Frank's concerned.
It's best that way.
And when
the wedding finally occurred,
I went.
For several years,
he'd call me,
now and then.
"Just checking,
Buddy."
We'd talk of unimportant things.
I married Gordon,
loving him as well.
But when I'd hear that voice,
my heart would leap inside my breast,
my soul would soar
and still rejoice.
Each call
would leave
me feeling
all that old familiar pain.
To add to this
I still would dream of him,
now and again.
Erotic
dreams,
where consummation
once again took place,
and I would wake up,
cry in vain, and hide my face.
Until
one day he called
and I disclosed
the contents of my dreams.
I told him graphically.
Do you suppose
this
was deliberate,
was I finally taking better care of me?
No more do dreams of Frank disturb my slumber.
He calls no more, but do you think
he dreams of me?
I
wonder.
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