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When I was born, my mother said I had a head of hair. She looked at me with my angry purple skin, she said that I was ugly but she loved me even then. She worried that my father wouldn't adore me when he saw, he was working until 8, and I was born at roughly 6.
Sure as dawn he saw me and he gazed down at the floor, he flickered a half smile but that was it, and nothing more. He knew that hints of youth had been extinguished by my birth. He congratulated my mother with a nervous lack of mirth.
1 year and 4 months later is when I was told I'd become the man, because father took his clothes and left us, never to be seen again.
My mother, Eva, died when I was 21.

The roots are buried deep in toxic earth on which my feet desperately kick for traction. The vile soil is rich with the rot of resentment and poor choices.
My previous inertia has allowed this weed to entrap me and hold me stilled, so much that my choice to resist is hopeless and too late.
I cease, and my feet slowly sink into the poisonous loam. I have succumbed to my insecurity. The vines ensnare my limbs and wrap around me fully until they dangle from my digits. Soon they will erupt with foul foliage and blossom with ugliness, feeding from the dirt I have surrounded myself with and the actions I have given in to. This is a parasite slowly taking me: leading me to do things in an attempt to alleviate it which only make it grow more. Soon there will be only a brutish weed where I once stood.

To love is to live.

With finger outstretched silently, I reached into the night.
Summoned by my pulsing warmth, a moth took break from flight.
I studied the moth for all it was, enamored by the thing,
But as I began to express myself, the moth had taken wing.
I stood there lonely for a moment, in company of the moon,
the simple beauty of the insect had moved me,
despite being here and gone so soon.

One of little faith,
Poorly you did fare.
You set your heart upon a path
And never made it there.

You sway your hips when you walk away from me. I see the emphasis you put into each step; you transfer the motion to your hips rather than your knees. You think I will find this sexually attractive. Woman, I am blind to these nuances.
There is a light behind your smile: a studio light. You straighten your upper lip when you grin so I won't catch a fleeting glimpse of your prominent gum line. You restrain yourself; you present your perceived best; hoping this will be appealing to me.

Woman, the only way you could ignite my interest is by shamelessly exposing the ugliness you try to hide from me. I have seen a lot of pretty women. You are nothing exotic to me. What is exotic to me is seeing your vulnerable, disgusting humanity slip out and scatter all over the floor like a snapped pearl necklace. Seeing you flustered as you scramble to pick up all the beads: each passing second adding another degree to your burning shame. This would make you stand out to me.

I am dead. My self is spent. If you're looking for a person he has long since been evicted.

Erroneous– and worn upon,
One's deep thoughts do lead one on,
Like mischievous wisps of tobacco smoke
Evading the lips they do provoke.

I have found Emma. She is in me. She is out of me. She is around me. Emma cradles me in the ever-marching line of time.
I have wasted so many nights grieving over my loss. Over the loss of her. but Emma isn't lost. We were one. My half lives on, and hers too. Separated, we are whole apart.
We are whole apart. That sounds fantastic.

I have found something that makes me feel alive. A soothingly physical hobby that whisks the concentration from my mind and drops it onto the deck of a longboard.
It feels good. When your adrenaline is pumping and you're focused on getting your posture just right, you really can't focus on the things that be-grieve your soul.
I wish my board had a name. Definitely not Emma though. This is my new woman for the time being. I ride her as I please, and she brings me no grief. I don't love her, but I enjoy her company very much. We're on an adventure together.

Every day is a game of tug-o-war between the worries and resignations going on in my life.
It's been a while now, since Emma left me. I know a lot of men my age are divorced. I'm not special in my situation.
Isn't it absurd, when you stop to think about it, that so many people suffer the exact same thing, each account of it entirely unique and yet all-too-familiar?
I could describe my feelings to a multitude of kindred divorcees, and they could relate on the surface, but really, my only kindred is Emma.

I don't even know how Emma is doing. We haven't talked since our last talk. I love her so much, still, however we severed ties completely that day. Almost surgically. It was a simple procedure, in action. Her sister merely came the day after, gathered her things, and that was that. I mean, yes, there were the legal things, of course. But we exchanged tersely, business-like. It felt like, rather than talking to my soul-mate, it was a representative for her, some suited woman speaking on her behalf, with cool, dry hands folded stiffly on her lap.
That interaction was entirely different from the raw anguish I released when I was left to myself each night. When the hot tears had been exhausted, when my head throbbed from the heaving and sobbing that left me feeling spent and empty, I was thinking about soul-mate Emma. I think my body has immunized itself to that sort of visceral reaction, now. But there is that dull pain I still get in my heart. It's like dysthymia. It doesn't wretch my innards with suffering, but it's a bastard nonetheless. It prods me rudely throughout the day. And once I'm reminded, it likes to nag at me, gently, but the persistence lessens my overall quality of life. I don't feel suicidal anymore, but it's almost like this new way of aching for Emma has even robbed me of the choice of suicide or not. It leaves me feeling like some sloughed shell. Emma shed me and carried on, unfortunately taking my will to live, with her.

I'm at the point where I know I can find someone else. I mean, it is possible. I think about it, and tell myself: "it's plausible." But I miss Emma. It's like some sort of handicap now. I don't want to feel this way anymore, it is a tired hurdle. A chronic physical ailment. The needlessness is the worst part of it. Emma plays absolutely no part in my life anymore.
Emma is like the scene you see the morning after a party, when things are sorely out of place, the excitement is a dull memory, and you know that what you experienced is never going to happen again. Everyone just wants to go home and leave the deceased site. But you can't. It was your party, and when you're alone, and the frank light peers in through your window, you have to pick up all the pieces and dwell on each one.
Sometimes I just get angry at her, as silly as it sounds. I tell myself, she robbed me. She robbed me from ever feeling that way about a woman, ever again. I spent that on her, and she left me. I know it's immature. But my feelings sometimes get desperate like that. I feel like an upset little kid who had to leave the carnival early. Getting angry at her just pushes me back to feeling defeated, however. Because, no matter what I feel, she's gone and she's a dead, fading experience and what we had is already forgotten by the universe.

I want someone new. I hate saying that sentence, it makes her sound like an old car that no longer suits my needs, but it's true. But unfortunately my disability and my distracted, hesitant attention is an undesirable combination. I know I could do it. I could build something new, but it takes years. Emma took 24 years. No one is willing to put 24 years into something that's second-hand. Maybe someday, God will guide some woman to me out of pity, she may be equally resigned, or just patient and slightly alien, but until then, tug-of-war.