sweet yearning for a stranger

I remember the days where I knew the scent on your neck,
dewy with sweat and splashes of alcohol.

You’d roll over in a Black Sea
of sheets
and whisper some obscenity.

I know your avatar now.
Your dog.
Your breakfast sometimes.
Or lunch.
The inane bullshit.

I cling to hope
like a child 
as I scroll down.

Deeper and deeper.

The sweet yearning for a stranger.

I’ve seen your new everything..
Your eyes under the shade..
The new girl with the braid..


Your beaming white smile..

God, if there is any kindness in the universe, let me forget your beaming white smile..

– Sheila Sea

3 thoughts on “sweet yearning for a stranger

  1. I love the way you write Sheila. I’m scrolling through your feed, reading your poems. The sarcasm is wonderful, and your vocabulary and your use of it is satisfying, as it’s higher than the typical amateur poet who doesn’t have a good handle of the English language.

    “Inane bullshit” – I know someone who used to talk like that, use the word inane. I learned it from her, years ago.

    You may find this funny. I posted a poem titled “Inane” on October 3, 2014 with a photo of an Asian man eating a cricket kabob, which sounds like your preceding lines before “Inane bullshit”, in speaking about breakfast or lunch!

    by Ry Hakari

    Milady Sadness is consistent
    in her frequent visits, meant
    I think to seduce attention
    from completing sentences…

    But my melancholic mistress’s
    half-imaginary romantic trysts
    sure beats conversations with
    these inane asylum crickets…

    Those stupid chirping jerks’
    intermittent dissonance is
    pretentious encouragement,
    disingenuous of friendship!

    Fond memories of her delightful sarcasm and slights to me, that I didn’t quite mind all the time as I knew she stood up for me amongst other less kind people, you have brought to mind. Those were the good old days, before the shit hit the fan, and me and my inane bullshit ruined my reputation, and for awhile, may have ruined hers.

    To quote a quote on my “About Me, Myself, & I” page…

    …as my favorite pill-popping mad TV doctor Gregory House once said… “Sometimes, I am wrong. I have a gift for observation, for reading people and situations, but sometimes, I am wrong. I will test you in ways that you will often consider unfair, demeaning and illegal… and will often be right.“

    Thankfully I am seeing a psychologist now, as I’m sure my old friend would have wished I would have back then. Maybe I can learn not to make introductions like the one I am making now… it’s more than a little zany, and too telling of things better left unsaid, and most likely sounds like something a “basement-dwelling creep” would say, as she told me once. She apologized, but she was right, I didn’t know how to act. I suppose I am a little more self-aware now, but I still have a habit of leaving long comments for people I don’t even know, where I make myself look really bad.

    I am a living satire of myself, I suppose, if I want to pretend that this is not my normal. I go by Ry Hakari, as Hakari is my last name in Japanese, and Ry is my first name cut in half. Pleased to meet make your acquaintance, if you approve my bat-shit crazy comment and respond.

    Ry Hakari is also an anagram for harakiri (well, if you change the i sound of the y in Ry, at least), the Japanese Samurai warrior ritual of committing suicide after one has caused dishonor to fall upon one’s self. It’s dark humor, as black as the Black Sea you mentioned that I last wrote about in early November, saying this

    “The soul and spirit of the world, Anima Mundi and Spiritus Mundi’s tryst hit the skids, and they separated their essences, twin Ouroboros romantics’ scales imbalanced. Letting go is difficult, especially when it’s not known what exactly it is I think I still hold so close like a spirit to my soul, like the silhouette to my shadow, a ghost that gloams my home like it’s her own, a persistent memory touching my every reverie. Ouroboros dreams self-fulfilling prophecies of self-destructing: Talking out my ass, my circle’s influence shrinks and I feel so small. Evidence’s cause is lost, swallowed in static, tongue-tied and snowblind. I can’t find my heart — it burned breathing ether, drowned drinking fire-water. My lungs yearn, unsung — desperate — always undone, before they’ve begun… Empathy’s emptied self-pity for me, myself, ’cause I want to die. Suicidal smiles inch by inch, with miles to go — decades — ’til sweet sleep! Always laughing last — the stars who can spark my heart burn-out, leaving scars! I’ll eat my heart out and all the words I’m cursed with, throat an open grave… I get just desserts past the pull-date, expired but survive somehow… Botulism, baby! Salmonella — your fella’s just called your number… Please return my call! Death’s daughters, this run-around’s so cold and lonesome! My darkest hourglass — the Black Sea’s sands keep filling my eleventh back! It should be past-tense but evenings never ending — dawn taunts from far-off! I’ve counted the cost, and lost count — it’s mind-numbing — number’s crunching me! Call me crazy, but… please, call me something hush-hush, silence means nothing… Defrost dialogue — this monologue’s swallowing me whole — It’s so cold! Our old static show’s the only one in limbo — we’re stuck on repeat! Dog’s re-eat vomit, I regurgitate my words — never seem to learn… See, PTSD’s way back Wednesdays’ throw-back Thursdays to flashback’s Friday’s rinse, lather repeat, though one may rather a way out of May. 2008 made the devil care way too much about dreamed demons raising hell in me, imprisoned in my body, dying to get out for another chance, for a re-run’s redemption — promise unbroken. Ouroboros shrinks at the rate he grows and knows Winter doesn’t end. Signs of Virgin-Scales on cusps of eternities splits infinities in between seasons the world sees change, but remain cold in outer-space. Spinning through the stars — an endless blurring blizzard tracing time and space… You would get lost too, wishing on them as they shoot for love that’s true blue opened up to you — virgin-like trust un-jaded, reciprocated…”

    Anyways, I saw you followed me awhile back on here, and I am perusing posts by people who have done as much in recent days who I have failed to reciprocate with, and there you have it, how I arrived here, both literally and figuratively in the sense of my currently exploiting my past in hopes for a laugh that isn’t from pity, to show how I arrived here in the present as the neurotic hot mess that I am today. lol Not begging for friendship though, just testing you in ways that will often consider unfair, demeaning, and illegal… kidding!

    Looking forward to future sarcastically amusing posts with cultured vocabulary Sheila, though it looks like you don’t post with high frequency. A shame, as I said, you have a handle on language better than many. But such is life for people who have lives offline and the need for more balance to their time and minds! That is why I no longer blog every day now, I suppose.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ah, it automatically approved. I would have liked for you to have had the opportunity to not approve that. Sorry, I was just having random fun, my bad. I thought most people had their blogs set to require approval for first comments from new people! lol

      Liked by 1 person

    2. This has got to be top commment of all time.. haha.. give me some to digest all of this. Also, i don’t moderate my comments because i like freedom of speech on my blog. I’m not afraid of criticism or crazies. haha.

      Liked by 1 person

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