I long for you, moments spent anywhere but in my head.
I long for you, languid towers of neuroses embraced as saviors.
I long for you to hold the cup that I cannot bring to my lips.
I long for you to stop those thoughts pouring out of my heart like rats from an infested basement.
I long for you to be what I can’t in the light of those miserable times on stairs and by doors, closed, always closed.
I long for you, the boat drunk of its own desire that tumbles down the river of its tears and secretions. Sail my seas and anchor in my ports; they cave under the weight of their own loneliness.
I long for you to grab those jungle-thoughts sticking out of my head and tear them out of me like unwelcomed weeds. And in the craters left behind, plant a seed that is not me, that is better, that will be stronger and willed like I could never.
I long for you, the cry that cannot escape my gut, trapped in congealed pasts frozen of memories unremembered and touches never felt. Come, great hand of longing, and strap your way around my throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze again until I shiver and blue and pass. Release your grip only then and hear the truest words I ever spoke.
I long for you, the long departure that leaves nothing behind only to become even less. Entrap me in silk stolen from the cribs of those gods that abandoned me to the hazy heat of flooded fields. Sooth the burning in my eyes, they have seen so much, they can’t comprehend or process or organize that space of visions and flashes and landscapes grand and wounded in a coherent symbol that would speak of me.
I long for you, blonde of wheat and barley, of summer suns and golden pockets. You, cup of nectar filled to the brim, I want to drown myself in your serenades and the warmth of your cut, long and languid across the lips as I drink from your belly the slow pulsation that you beg and then moan and then release in a gargantuan belch of pleasure. Scream me into longing again that I might exist within you.
I long for you, tender queen of the coming and beauty of what is and surely will never be. More than anything else I long for you. Fisted of fortune and coiffed with fate, you hang blanched at the cold light of stars and the infinity of space above my brow. You, the caress never truly felt but in the moments I felt I could, I long for you; you, the unknown that drips across fields of bloodied ruin, words lost, long lost, never pronounced but in breaths too fetid, from throats too parched for sense to ever grace their weightlessness.
I long for you, finally, to take me away from the crystal stretching its bare surface across all those faces and reflecting always my nauseous image atop smiles brilliant of their ineptitude and empty of any symbol I can relate to. I long, I say, in ways cruel beyond thoughts and nail and matches and fire, tortured in longing, oppressed down holes dark and narrow and always lost to the mind. I long for earthy deaths of gun powder and hissing rackets of infant’s limbs tied to trees scorched with the fire of metal. I scream for you at night, sweat burning my brow. And as you kiss me, memories, bullets and friends -gutted, impaled, and lost to the grand night beyond our eyelids and our fears- all pound with heavy fists against my dreams.
I long for you to stop. To quit me. To go dark and green and gone.
I long for you no more.
Cyril Bussiere 06-08-2014 My take on what I imagine PTSD, specifically from Nam, is like.