The Vastness is Bearable Only Through Love

Wandering Lost Highways

[thelost-highway]

Red dripping lips and passion filled mist, screaming in my ears. Devours my soul and swallows me whole for another ten thousand years. 2015 - Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

I Love...

I love the way the sun 

lights upon your golden face

as it sets low into the fading sky.

I love the sounds you make

when my teeth graze your skin

leaving red marks in their haste.

I love each breath that

escapes your pink lips while

you sleep peacefully through the night.

I love the flutter of your lashes

like butterfly wings as your eyes 

open from some far-away dream.

I love the lock of chestnut hair

that falls over your furrowed brow

and hangs there silently at peace.

I love each freckle and each

mole and every little mark

on your perfect pale skin.

Most of all I love to love you

with each kiss and each sigh

with each breath and each whisper

I love

I love you

I love you…

© 2015 - Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

He told me I was more beautiful than the last sunset on the last day of your life.

[thelost-highway]

Maybe I'll never be satisfied...

[thelost-highway]

Blan__ks

I'm filled with blanks...

Blank spaces

I try to fill.

Blank pages

vacant and wordless.

Blank lines

that never build.

Blank mind

empty and bare.

Always a blank slate,

always wiped clean.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Violent Delights

His agony was beautiful;

watching him grimace

and furrow his brow as

he worked out some

new lick or lyric on

his Fender Mustang 

was sweet torture.

Licking his lips in

time to the rhythm—

I was captivated by

each stroke across his

pink mouth that

coincided with each

strum across the strings.

Whenever he would

finally fit the last piece

into the puzzle he

would wrap his arms

around me and bury his

face in my hair, sighing

with each breath,

running his nose

along the column of

my neck until he

reached my ear and he

would start to whisper

whatever dirty little

thing came into his

perfectly depraved head.

I would smirk and

laugh at his candor,

but I gave in to every

single fantasy he

ever concocted.

Enthusiastically and with

much vigor we would

work out his frenetic

energy leftover from

working for forty-eight

hours straight on through

to the other-side until

he was wholly satisfied.

When we collapsed,

hair and lips and

fingers finally still,

we were spent and sated.

His limbs would spread

like ink and every line 

on his tragically handsome

face would grow slack

with the weight of

his sleep.

Those nights were often

filled with visceral dreams, 

as I lay in his bed and

in his arms draped in

his scent and his taste.

I loved him then, in

those silent moments,

after the final little

deaths had wracked 

our aching bones.

I would wrap my

fingers in his hair and

kiss the tattoos down

his arm until sleep

fell over me like a veil

and my eyes succumbed 

to the laws of gravity.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Lost Boy

Did I ever tell you the story

about a boy with wild hair

and half-lit eyes?

He smoked hand-rolled

cigarettes and lived in a

vintage leather motorcycle jacket.

Sometimes he was very quiet,

except for when he wasn't

and his brain sped faster

than his lips could speak.

He would rant and rave,

fingers stretching into the air

and then suddenly he'd fall

silent as if stricken by

his own heart.

His head would hang and

his eyes would fade out of view,

and those ridiculous aching

hands would rake through

his hair like his thoughts, 

combing for the forgotten topic 

he had almost reached, but 

some wayward tangent had taken 

him entirely over and ruined

his nearly lovely point.

I used to listen to him

talk for hours, but

it felt like minutes and

then he'd be gone...

outside...down the block

sucking down another smoke,

his head held low to

keep out the sun.

He was beautiful then,

but lost...adrift on some

long, forgotten sea and

alone in his head with

his grandeur, his delusions,

and his paranoia.

I dreamed of him often then,

of his face and his voice

and those fragile hands

thin as a scarecrows'.

In them, he was always

quiet and quietly smirking--

his face relaxed and

sometimes he would throw

his head back in laughter

and I would stare down 

his Adam's apple as it 

bobbed and stretched

from his raucous chuckle.

It was dreamland irony

that he was always happy

or at least on the brink

of happiness whenever

I thought of him...

maybe I just always hoped

for a happy ending.

The last day I saw him

it was nearing dark and

the rain was lighting

down upon his face.

He had decided to take

a train out of the city,

out of the state, and

he asked me to understand

and I smiled because

I didn't want to, but

I did.

His grateful smile

touched my lips and

then my hands before 

he said goodbye. 

I did not stay and

watch him go, instead

I turned to leave before

I could know whether

he glanced at me one last time.

It was better to leave it

unknown; either answer

would have hurt more

than I wanted to feel.

I drove away from him,

into the grey

and the mist, leaving

him to his dreams.

© 2015 - Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Don't Wanna Be Your Girl - Wet

[thelost-highway]

Dreams of You

i'm going to keep

dreaming of you

and imagining the

tiny smirk that rolls

across your lips and

lights up every

inch of your face.

i smile to myself

as i think of you

and i together...

all the little flickers

would envy us

because we'd burn

fierce and bright.

we would be light

and air and sun 

and sweetness

blending into one

another and feeding

each other's egos

and energies until

we are consumed.

© 2014, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

The End

T.S. Eliot wrote: This is the way the world will end not with a bang, but a whimper...

A whimper or a whisper, 

a gasp, but not a scream.

One by one snuffed out

like little candles

on the sill;

now you see us, 

now you don't. 

The collective sigh

of our lights dying

will be the last sound

ever heard from

the world.

© 2014, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

I've Heard It Before

"You're so beautiful..."

that's what they all say

like I should be grateful to hear it.

What does that mean anyway?

Such a shallow compliment, 

I don't want to feel obliged.

Tell me I'm wise or funny,

tell me I'm mysterious

or hard to read.

Don't tell me I'm "beautiful",

that sentiment means

nothing to me.

Anyone can be beautiful

it's not something

hard to achieve...

I want to be admired

for talents or insights,

not something that

makes me feel cheap.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Letters

I wrote you a letter 

to tell you I love you,

but I couldn't leave

it at your door.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you I miss you,

but I left it in a crumple

on my bedroom floor.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you I want you,

but the words just 

wouldn't come out right.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you I need you,

but I didn't know

what to write.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you I'm fucked up,

but my thoughts were

too hard to share.

I wrote you a letter 

to tell you I'm sorry,

but I didn't know

if you'd still care.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Mother Universe

Where the water ends

the sun rises out

of a maiden's hair,

burning gold luminescence

filtered through the

clouds in her eyes.

She yawns the sun's rays

and when it sets

she slumbers as the sky.

Wide and expansive she's

the deepest blue

like midnight, and stars

fall from her lashes

twinkling and spreading across

the inky darkness of her form.

Her limbs are mountains

and valleys and canyons,

and her blood lights the

world with color; greens and

yellows and reds splashing

the landscape she's created

from her flesh and marrow.

Her very essence breathes

all life into the cosmos

extending from her soul

and unfurling outward

into beautiful existence.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Hollow Words

All your words are empty and hollow now...

How can you convince me of your sincerity 

when you can't even convince yourself?

You've been selling stories and

selling yourself for so long you

can't remember how to be genuine.

You've lost the knack for candor 

like someone loses their voice.

You peddle fairy tales as gospel and

it's no wonder the deceit you've

been living in has taken over,

bleeding into your eyes that

used to be so soulful I could

always tell your lies. 

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Mad Ones

extravagant eccentric drinking champagne from crystal green china waving arms and nails wildly in the sky mimicking a birds' wings flapping violently against the bars of a cage...her caftan flowing in the breeze outlining her round breasts letting sunlight pour through the gossamer fabric twirling madly in her room with red lipstick on her lips and stains all over her cigarettes she lets burn away in patterned ashtrays on the nightstands and coffee tables...curls frame her angelic face and when she smiles it's broad and the light fills her eyes as she exhales smoke and goes on and on about Swiss chocolate and timepieces and Irish whiskey and Irish men whose accents brush against your flesh as they grab you from behind for another taste of skin...records play softly in the other room John Coltrane and Ella Fitzgerald and Satchmo blaring on the pipes ringing across the decrepit vaulted ceilings displaying cracked plaster and withered paint of gold and red and black...this room was alive in the 20s filled to the brim bursting with flappers and dames and jazzheads and hepcats and mobsters and decadence that doesn't exist in the modern age and she's not modern but she has charm and mystery that draws everyone into her orbit revolving around her exuberance like the planets around the sun which she adores as she swallows down more champagne shimmying out of her pearls and diamonds dripping down her back like sparkling waterfalls...there goes another cigarette to ash and she's twirling again arms outstretched wide and soaking up the rays of light putting all else into shadow and making everyone fall in love with her over and over again as the music hits the perfect rhythm and the percussion is beating inside your chest louder than your heart can beat it sweeps you up in its wild discordant haze and it's a perfect and beautiful storm of everywhere you never knew you wanted to be which only makes her laugh louder in delight and satisfaction that she's pulled back the curtain and shown you the wonder of living out loud for all to see and marvel at the light which now emits from your eyes as well as hers like stars illuminating the night joining her dizzying dance across the marble floor you burn together madly spiraling into fireworks exploding across the formless sky.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Butterfly

I yearn to be like the butterfly— winged and bright and self-actualised.

A butterfly is the pinnacle; it is not becoming, it has already become reaching its zenith.

It has shed its chrysalis metamorphosis from caterpillar to its final form as brilliant hued flying thing no longer bound by Earth’s gravity but able to soar the sky and kiss the treetops.

I yearn to be like the butterfly— free and found and beautifully alive.

© 2015, Tara Holland

[thelost-highway]

Love Drug

i’m soaking my bones

with thoughts of you

and as I sink deeper

into this darkness

i’m reminded of your taste—

salt, thick…

hot and wet.

i lick my lips

at the memory

you’ve imprinted in me

and i tremble for it…

for lips and tongue

and hands on my neck

that feel the thrum

of my heartbeat

coursing through my veins.

i’m getting off on

your drug and

it’s sweeter than i

imagined it would be

which makes coming down

so much harder for

my body to maintain.

i could get addicted

to this rush and

to your smell and

the sensation of your

sweat as it drips

on to my lips and

i savor the taste.

© 2015, Tara Holland