This was written awhile back. Things have changed since then and I am okay with sharing certain pieces of me now. It is part of the way art works, opening up pieces of your inner self. A writer always risks rejection in some form when putting their work forward. It is part of the art form, any art form for that matter. It is a powerful thing.
Ghosts of the past are always with us, but we learn to live with them and hopefully move forward and up. It is what it is. Peace is sometimes a hard thing to grasp.
I hope you get the reference of the character I used as the title of the poem. If you don’t I challenge you to learn something and look it up. It is a wonderful story.Charlie Gordon and I
Sometimes it is the good memories that are the most painful-
A newly discovered song playing on the radio, Listening quietly together, To the strains of RyanDan crooning The Face in lilting harmony.in a candle lit room, with the snow falling outside the curtainless window, A big capiz shell Filipino parol Christmas light in the front window of the house across the darkened street, softly glowing, sending its blessings back to us through the drifting white flakes as we watch its gentle light,. at peace with the world, and each other. Yin and yang.
And later-a hand reaching backwards for reassurance in the middle of the night, to make sure I am still there and not a merely another empty dream. The ensuing barely conscious soft sigh of content exhaled from between his lips, at the feel of my warm and real skin under his hand. “I love you,” barely spoken in a quiet breathy sigh as he drifts back to sleep, secure in my true love. Both sleep warm and peaceful, spooned and safe.
Sometimes in the middle of another lonely night, those happy elusive, but vivid memories, hurt more than any betrayal, and tears fall in rivers on my pillow in the dark.
Charlie Gordon slowly lost everything he had magically learned, but underneath he could never find happiness again in what was left, vaguely aware that once he had known what all the possibilities were, and had once been happy in their discovery.
I always felt deeply for his loss and him. Now I know why.
Charlie Gordon and I are kindred lost souls, haunted by the light of what was, and what could have been.