He is Coming.

I remember clearly the love of life, appreciation of beauty, observation of light.
I remember the bounce in my step and the sweet honey calls of the innocents... friends.
I remember clearly that most things were wonderful, and those that weren't
were easily forgotten. How much He has changed me.

At this moment I remember him pointing out colors. None of us are equal. See pain.
Pain is everywhere. Feel it: His words which hit me--changed me. Altered completely: my core view. Naivety is dangerous, Miriam, wake-up. So it was spoken, and so it would be done, and I did. Out from my child-like fantasy: the world no longer bright.
The world is brightly variegated.
There are better and lesser colors, one can see it.
Plainly, clearly, adornment... here, hear the quality of color song, you see?

He had an impossible time believing He was not better than I. He was training me through his self-disciplined culture--to see what he was simultaneously trying to teach himself to unlearn, un-install, reprogram, reboot. Das boot... He was beautiful. Once. But his history brought us to terms with his teachings.

Coming to terms with Neo-Nazis and my generation, I must admit with great shame that I've loved and been loved by two. I don't know how or why. They find me. To change the Other, one can only suppose their objective.

...

I look in the mirror. Adjust my name tag, and realize its not my name tag. This tag is Italian, my surname is Spanish. What a strange mistake the airline made. My flesh: pale, sun-kissed Americana. My scarf: Red, White & Green. I wrap it in the Northern Italian fashion around my small neck. Thumb to thumb it measures--index fingers overlapping (how is that for a ring? --I propose). The calm voice inside my head makes no movement in the mirror. No sound.

I leave. The name tag still upon the counter.

...

From the foot of my bed I reach to straighten my navy blue pencil skirt, I evenly adjust the tuck of my blouse. I straighten the nude seam tracing the back of each nude stockinged leg, carefully placing each foot into a pair of BCBG heels, because they make me feel better. This is my newish dead truth, (maybe not so new) and the American way.

On my way out, I remember when I believed that there was a place, and a flame, and a heart for every body. He took that, too. Then, when my change was complete. And the winds were cold and no longer carrying me lightly--but rather pounding. When my tears dried, and my lilting laughter: altered indefinitely. When the hole in my chest and daggers in my back eviscerated like change from a broken bank and streaming in pleasing harmonious metallurgical sounds like a wedding train orchestra, only different.

When I heal my addiction to him and his puss-filled li(n)es.

This is is the point...
Where his disfigured claws begin their crawl, two-by-two
Upon harsh terrain, in pursuit of their grand refrain, like moonsong
Pawing towards my traveling door.

Again.
And Again.
And Again.