think you know what the after and the ever more means?

i had thought that my grandmother, when she was alive, did not love my grandfather very much. of course, she didn't really show it, she just showed it in ways like being intensely jealous when my grandfather was around other women. (he had movie star looks when he was young, serious!) but well this same intense jealousy is how people show their love. in fact, it is probably the ONLY way people would show it, if they love someone. being nice, doing sweet stuff, only meant that that person, likes you. but never, ever, think that that person, is in love with you.

days before my grandmother died, she said to my grandfather, "i know, i've got you. but i knew, i never, had your heart." but i know why. my grandfather never got the person he wanted; he had to like someone he was forced to be with.

this is what the ever after and forever more is.

if you know someone is jealous of you, somehow, even though you did the most innocuous thing (to you, that is) like going out with friends. things are probably not as simple as it seems.

if you spend the all your life's energies in devotion to moments with someone, but all you end up with are folded corners in silence and the feeling that you're like toilet paper down the john, then, probably, no, surely, you gotta move on.

you hear that? its the sound of your hearts' restlessness trembling on shots of vicodin and cigarettes. or vodka and somnolence. i don't know what soporific stupor you want to get yourself into in order to numb yourself of your enervated soul, but i thought, you might want to know this.

do you think that the eternity, exists? who wants to live till they're old? who wants to be with someone till they are sick? you've got cash? check. you've got looks? check. you've got panache? you've got game.

but thats all it is. a game of you, a game of him, her, or anyone. a game of us to play with, spit out after it has gone stale.

so don't be too sad if things don't work out. things never last forever. its ok to change, its ok to move on. its just a new skin to be peeled off, moult and dry off.

the air a spritz of freshness,
morning flowers over flow with dew.
bunched in the porcelain vase they lay
a warmth, of spice, and cinder, just for you.
as tinder they are, for enraptured hearts
innocence, in scented waters and crisp confines.

but now heat has burned itself out.
the flowers would revisit later; present ones decay
in waters livid with noxious perfume.
they fan out, flaccid, in the heat enraptured
perhaps, fresher flowers would reside in the
procelain vase, again.