I've dealt with my ghosts and I've faced all my demons
Finally content with a past I regret
I've found you find strength in your moments of weakness
For once I'm at peace with myself
I have been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long
I'm movin' on


I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Each one is different but they're always the same
They mean me no harm but it's time that I face it
They'll never allow me to change
But I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong
I'm movin' on


I'm movin' on
At last I can see life has been patiently waiting for me
And I know there's no guarantees, but I'm not alone
There comes a time in everyone's life
When all you can see are the years passing by
And I have made up my mind that those days are gone


I sold what I could and packed what I couldn't
Stopped to fill up on my way out of town
I've loved like I should but lived like I shouldn't
I had to lose everything to find out
Maybe forgiveness will find me somewhere down this road
I'm movin' on

Reflecting on one's life…sucks. There's no other way to describe it. No pithy phrases or wordy diatribes come close to that one phrase. For the first time in many years, I find myself in a position to sit here and look back on everything that I've accomplished, everything I have failed to do and I wonder just where I will end up. I find myself questioning the logic of everything these days.

For instance, at 3 am, when there is nothing on TV but very badly acted B westerns, soft porn and reruns of "Little House on the Prairie" do they see fit to air infomercials - only to interrupt them with commercials? A bit redundant, don't you think? I could always put in a DVD and watch something more suited to my taste, but that requires certain things - getting out of bed, bending over to grab said movie case from the shelf and inserting it into the machine.

Bending over isn't much fun these days. Time has not treated me well and said act causes more pain than pleasure - not that I've bent over in pleasure much in my life. When I get out of bed in the middle of the night and categorize the various aches and pains, along with the creaking and cracking of my joints, I seriously begin to question the judgment shown in my youth.

For years, I did everything I wanted, regardless of the consequences. Regret was for losers and old people - two things I was not, nor would I ever be. And yet now, on the south side of 40 and realizing I'm not getting any younger, I wonder if there is anything I would regret had I to do it over again. Maybe I wouldn't have allowed myself to be made into a myriad of characters that didn't reflect the true me. Maybe I wouldn't have surrounded myself with such sycophants. Maybe I would have been a bit nicer to those in my life.

I could have treated Stevie a little nicer and not tainted his innocence. I could have just been a friend to him, and not forced myself and my twisted views upon him. I could have taken the relationship in a different direction and not pushed him into the role of willing slave to my heartless master. I could have loved him as he loved me, but I didn't. I'm not saying I don't - nor did I never - love him. It was just a different kind of love.

I could have been less enabling of Jim and his addictive ways. I could have not offered him one more drink, one more hit, one more line. I could have stayed with him at the hospital, holding his hand while they pumped his stomach, instead of dropping him at the emergency room door and driving halfway across town to find myself one more fix before facing the music.

I could have gone without brainwashing the loyal members of my flock, the people who called me friend and mentor into thinking I was a god, worthy of their worship and loyalty. I could have gone without letting the power I had over them go to my head, being able to control their every move on whatever whim struck me at the time. I could have treated them like human beings, not the puppies I came to think of them as more and more.

I could have turned and walked away the first time I was approached, rather shyly and with that irresistible Southern charm. I could have ignored the voice in my head telling me that everyone else had tasted the rainbow, so why shouldn't I have a taste? I could have said no when he told me his dreams and fantasies - and offered to indulge them in any way possible. I could have refused to answer when he asked if I loved him.

I could have…should have…would have. But I didn't.

I've burned so many bridges, closed so many doors that now I should be relegated to a life if misery. If that old saying were true - keep your friends close and your enemies closer - I'd have a packed house every night, a party of epic proportions, with every ghost from my past waiting with a dagger in hand to stab me in the back, much like I have done to all of them. Et tu, Brute. Et tu.

And yet, I am not alone. Could be, should be, would be, if not for the grace of some god I have never felt necessary to acknowledge, let alone worship. When I wake at 3 am and sit up, every bone, joint and tendon in my body protesting the movement, there is a smooth hand sliding from my back to land softly on the mattress. And when I wander the house, taking in the silence and pondering my existence, there is a warm body waiting on me to return to my bed.

And when I am through wrestling with my demons of the night and I slip back between the soft cotton sheets, there are lean legs to wrap around my waist, soft lips to brush against my neck and strong hands to guide me home, into the tight heat that I have become accustomed to filling. When I cannot fight the tears, there are someone else's fingers to wipe the moisture from my eyes. When I cry out, there is a soft giggle echoing right behind the moans.

There are fingers, lips, a wet and willing tongue, designed to give a man every pleasure imaginable, waiting for me in that bed no matter how far I wander or how long I reflect. Sometimes I make my rounds alone and sometimes, as if by some unseen force, he magically appears next to me as I stare out the window, his cheek resting against my shoulder.

We never speak at times like this. Words are an unnecessary burden to us both in the middle of the night. He never asks, just gives or takes as he sees fit. He always knows what I need without me having to tell him. It's as if he can read my mind…my heart…my soul. Yes, it scares me at times, knowing he has so much control over me. But after all these years of exerting that same control over everyone else in my life, I am willing to give it all to him.

Unlike the others, he asks nothing in return, short of a good fuck and the pleasure of my company. And yet, I ask so much of him, even if the words are never spoken. I need him - more than air or water or any drug I have ever known. I told him this tonight, as we lay wrapped around each other, lingering in that blissful spot between awake and asleep. I felt his lips curl into a smile as his head lay on my chest and wondered if the pounding there was causing him any pain.

I waited for a reply, hoping in a weird way that he wouldn't give one. I could have handled anything - a derisive giggle followed by, "I know"…silence…a punch in the face…insults, laughter. What I got instead was a soft, contented sigh and a declaration I never thought possible from such a magnificent creature.

His baby soft hair, no longer forced into those ridiculous spikes, hanging loosely over his crystal green eyes, brushed against my chest as he raised his head and smiled at me. "I need you too, Scotty," he whispered, kissing me before laying down once again. "And I love you…now shut up and go to sleep, ya ol' fool." I lay there, holding him tightly as he drifted off to sleep.

Eventually I followed, blissfully frolicking in my dreams with my little prince of punk…and Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don't know where the hell he came from, no pun intended. Spike was always more my style.

The sun is just starting to peek out over the horizon. My breath clouds the window and I painstakingly run my finger over the letters it reveals on the pane. I don't know when he wrote it, but I trace over the heart in the middle of the phrase and smile when those arms wrap around me from behind. I let him lead the way as the condensation runs down the smooth glass.

Heat may mar the image of his words, the slightly shaky script of "Shannon *heart* Scott", but one thing it can never do is burn away the feeling of acceptance, love and yes, finally, peace that he has implanted in my heart. The ghosts of my past are buried and my future holds nothing but promise now. As I lose myself in him once again, I promise to do everything right this time. He deserves that much…and so do I.

~fin~