I had never thought,
as a dreamer of morning sun,
that I could miss the moon
hugging me at night so much –
with company in the stars,
shining pathways guided
by hope, glowing laughter
in the silence, warming
edges then my heart.
Every night I glance up,
hoping for the moon to make
an appearance – just one
conversation to kiss the
eyelashes, sparking
sonnets down to me toes.
As I close my eyes and
make a wish, I only sing
for my moon to come home.
I had put my
favorite jazz record
on, saddened I had
never taken you
to that club like
I promised;
but all I heard
on repeat was the
sound of your name
brushing my lips,
echoing cries
against a trumpet
and her sax, of a
love won then lost,
true jazz.
I had gone to that
old spot Sunday;
walking in, daring
not to sit outside
in good ol’ booth
number two – instead
forcing the patrons
awkward attention as
I grabbed a table of
six, for just myself
and a Guinness.
Smokers outside,
sipping in-between
under cooled beers
and vodka rocks;
corner pockets,
scratches, and arcade
games, the end of the
bar – lone road.
Knowing it wasn’t
the same here
anymore, I ordered
another and toasted
off to the memories,
waiting for you to
come and make your
final appearance.
I had tried to break the silence –
shattering all mirrors of yesterday,
while singing viciously over the future.
Too lost in stale vodka and sonnets,
that I once sung but now carry her
voice, I presume for you to notice.
I dare say, she sings much grander
than I – but I wonder what she’s saying
in the silence that makes your heart come
alive, like it did with me? Or doesn’t she
tease and evoke; make you quiver in that way?
Only silence, I presume – what a pity.
I’ll never know how to say goodbye –
do I whisper it softly and allow
it to fade off beyond the skyline,
harmonizing with the sweet moments
captured in between the colors of
the sun reflecting off the trees,
or do I slice it in half, bitter
at the core with the pain and anger
that is raging through my thoughts;
the hurt beyond my control as I want
to flee and run circles and scream
all in the moments of your turning
away, with two knifes in my side?
Tell me please, before you leave me.
What can crush an illusion,
such as hope, but two words
with a lone realization?
It’s a false pretense
baiting the walls with
memories shadowed in deceit;
gone are the visions of a
tomorrow filled with laughter
replaced instead with baited
breath – rapid succession beats
tearing apart the soul from the
core inside, trapping the victor
in a whirlwind of what will
never be, and what never
shall even be dreamed.
It’s admitting failure in
the eyes of wanting to change
what can’t be tamed, what has
not even occurred, with what
we could only paint in fantasies.
An illusion such as hope is
our own downfall – a harboring
destruction in our quake of
reality. It is eminent yet
no longer promising; rising
in our ashes only to spread
its wings and recant our spirits.
So why do we hold on for so long?
It’s here in those moments
when the light is breaking
through the blinds, hands
grabbing for every bit of
carpet to illuminate beyond
the beige fabrications of
when you and I laid there
sweet in slumber and kisses;
when the heat of the summer
hasn’t quite reached us yet,
oblivious in the shadows,
divulging our senses with
sweet lilacs from the
neighbor’s yard – blissfully
sneaking out to pick them in
the mid afternoon and it’s
in these moments that I
cherish that sweet loyalty –
just like the summer winds
will howl, the bushes will
sprout growth, and laughter
will fill the apartment
every time the sun reaches
our toes – you are there.
Storylines in Verse 