Twenty-Three.

A blue moon is casting
shadows on us tomorrow
night, sweet darling.
I hope that when you
gaze up towards the
sky, you’ll see my
reflection whispering
that it was all for
you on your birthday,
because distance is
the only thing you
asked for this year.

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Adsila.

I don’t believe in fate
or chance, and serendipity
was only ever just a girl,
but she came dancing into
my life with colors of blue,
chanting storms of hope
and promise, parading about
with one hand on the horizon,
the other one twirling rain;
she was full of questions
but she was always the only
answer, and perhaps that’s
why I was left in a haze
when she was gone, clearing
away the notions of uprising
in a dance meant for two.

Twenty- Five.

It was the first cool night
this summer, with the wind
whispering to the trees about
ages ago – back when we would
be sitting on the porch trying
to count the promises that we
heard in the echoes alongside
the rose bushes; back when we
were wishing on fireflies for
fire pits, not second chances
or warm rebuttals. Even with
the haze on the horizon and
a promise of stars, it was
making me homesick for fall.

One More.

Its been three hundred
and eighty days since I
first said those beautiful
words to you, frightened
as ever as I held you in my
arms; the sun was setting,
casting golden shadows
across our bed, and I kept
asking you to tell me a
story, just one more tale
to prolong the afternoon,
for I knew once you took my
heart, I’d never get it back.
And just look at us now
darling – it’s still yours,
just tell me a story.

Letting Go, Or Something like that

For months I was carrying a
gram of hope around my heart,
telling myself that I was
patient enough to wait for you
to realize where your home
truly lay, between comfort and
complexity, growing rustic at
the edges with time and wild
fires blazing up in passion –
but those are not realizations
forming on your lips as we
finally take that dive and
converse back like we used to.
I am kept at a distance, with
two smiles and a half shrug,
for your words are telling me
never again, or ever truly was.
Believe me sweets, this isn’t
the truth that I was hoping
would become our end, but I
have listened to your sonnets
growing out beyond the waters;
I shall drop all hope the
next time that it rains.

Fabricate.

In a brush of silence
painted on your sleeve,
fraying at the seems
with a hem of honesty
mixed with tainted chaos –
It is my favorite blend
of colors, discreetly
and artistically crafted
in your scent from
ages drawn with the
curtains, only coming
through with the days
past early September.
I am eager for the shade
to return, wrapping
myself in warmth and
boundaries, bidding the
sun to retreat and for
my days to feel like
home, once again.

Twenty-One.

With an ounce of
temptation trapped
in the third to last kiss,
I saw a future cast
before my eyes of white
lace and black candlesticks,
walking down a strip to a
sunset morrow whispering
away the final days of
summer, laughing until
the stars could no longer
illuminate the sky, when I
was your bride and
everything else was lost in
the hobble of vows and words,
holding on until the second
to last brush of lips when
temptation had dissipated
with the heat of the rising sun;
those are the moments
trapped in ounces of memories
never to become undone.

New Day.

The silence has
retreated, creeping
past thunderstorms
and rolling tides,
breaking wind
storms and sonnets,
collapsing into the
hazed waves of
destruction and blue;
beyond the riffs
of water curling
against two words
with a lone promise,
the sun is rising
again, drying out
the absence, and
singing tales of
honey kissed rays.

Insight One.

In a memory
muted with time,
I cupped my hand
around your cheek,
counting your
eyelashes, making
a wish on every
single one, asking
to be blessed with
just one more day
with you – never
quite realizing
I’d run out of
wishes to count.

Twenty-Four

I should be listening
to the immense volumes that
your silence is shattering
through my bouts of hope;
I should be able to hear
your voiceless whispers
telling me that we shall
never converse again, yet
I cannot bring myself to
fathom a world where
you and I aren’t able to
do that, where we can’t
move past the absence,
so please just answer me
why – if those are the
only words to fall from
your lips, let them entrap
me in swirls of truth,
dancing around the parade
of lies. I can take it
darling, just whisper them –
I can listen through the
volumes, I can shell out
the hurt, I can. I will.