My Moon,

The stars have become my enemy
as I gaze across them each night
when my eyes and mind won’t sleep,
as they get to be in your presence
rocking you soundly to sweet dreams
of sunshine and half cast metaphors.

Seventeen.

A look of pure
rush and gold,
swirling with
your eyelashes,
creating sparks
of love and
wonder, overcast
in shadows of
absence and
harsh silence.
I am still
crawling, knees
burnt in the
afterglow; just
keep throwing
me your signs
sweet temptress,
I am yours.

Sandburg.

(For Ann Morse)

Back to the days of
Crayola and pop music;
when life was optimistic.
Before the Beats’ words
sprouted my ideas to the
heavens, rooting them in
foundations of debauchery
and debris – I felt home.

When prose was just another
word, and abstract meant
nothing in rhyme; when
words were lost without
blue ink to take notice,
back before odd numbers
became haunting, and
broken heart pieces ran
frantically through verse –
there was one to inspire;
a rose in the rubble.

A library of foundation
in my childhood recanted,
with books and metaphors
still springing up in
free formed rhyme today –
she was a model for the
curious, the knowledgeable.
With a love for dark
chocolate, set to illuminate
all seasons of fall, it is
her voice that I carry in
the outskirts of my mind,
creating pillars of hope
and discovery in my stages
of free verse and rhyme.

I cannot recall when my
words in ink first flowed
through me as my foundation
of love, yet I know she was
there with words and books
in hand, calling out
“Sandburg” as though my
tears couldn’t be more
proud to have a grandmother
like her, on my side.

Muse

I once called her name,
barely breaking a whisper,
trying to prove to myself
that I still could, even
though she had gone astray;
with me still looking for
her in the colors of my
pens, the spaces between my
words, and in the lines of
the journal that she had
insisted matched the
creativity that we were
creating. Together.
She was my second muse
having come and gone,
dried up with the blue ink
stains and coffee grounds
scattered across the page –
I can only hope she’s
traveling as well,
finding whatever it is
that she’s looking for.

Eighteen.

You listened
to so and so,
say yadda-yah
about doubts
and fears you’d
never once had
before; only this
time they were
miraculously true,
we were wrong,
yet only because
it was easier.
And if that’s
your kind of game,
I guess it’s a
good thing
I’m no longer
invited to play.

Every time it rains…

With nothing left to do
but stare out the window,
I count memories as they come
plummeting down, watching
as they fall and crash
drop by drop, day by day,
creating puddles and hurdles
in their crestfallen wake –
but you can’t see them anymore;
it must be sunny in Florida.

Twenty.

As the heat began to drop,
the sun looming over the
tops of the treeline,
I was hit with that
unnerving realization
that while I wasn’t
eager, nor exactly
willing – it was time
to let go, and breathe.
Watch the sun fade,
christening the stars
as I focused on the
colors and shades
no longer the whys,
just one last time –
I was ready. It wasn’t
home but I’m sure
that I’ll be missed.

2, And then we weren’t forever…

On the bare walls
of our old apartment,
memories are playing
like reels on repeat,
showcasing dances of
first every things
overlapping with what
would become our lasts;
cries are no longer
the sound of the room,
instead replaced with
our song, that I can’t
bring myself to listen
to, playing on mute –
pleading with me to
simply ask of you,
if you even struggle
half as much as I do?

Fifteen.

The days this summer
are ticking away,
falling frail to new
anniversaries, and
bonfires scattering
about purple and blue
ashes of the past,
tenfold – relying
solely on memories to
carry the weight of what
was once forever,
swept up in embers,
forcibly cast away.

Frayed.

We loved in the way
we thought each other
wanted to be loved –
trying to frame the
torn edges of one
another into moldings
to be put on display.
Only being watched
as we were tumbled,
falling strands away.