Morning Reflections.

Ever so silently, I crept into
the blanket of stars last night,
hoping for their gentle embrace
as I longed to be near the moon,
casting wishes on tomorrow and
singing alongside the breeze that
only comes at twilight; rocking so
soundly to the whistle of trees
below, hopping from dream to
dream with every newly fallen
star, and realizing too quickly
the sun would rise, and I’d be
falling from grace, without a
gentle kiss from the moon to
guide me into my day, and so
deftly I cried – a dewy mist on
morning grass, left as a promise
that I had been thinking of you.

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Flying by.

It was one of those lazy
Sunday afternoons, with
the reflections of the sun
glistening off the ripples
of the bay, showcasing
all of the answers to the
questions I never thought
to ask, with the laughter
of the children echoing past
my daydreams, when I saw
the first butterfly of this lost
season floating by me – it
was innocent and endearing;
promising to the new one
ahead. I tried to grab hold,
but like change it was quite
unpredictable, yet always
eager for us to take notice.

Thirty-Five

It was only a whisper
heard amongst the soft
echoing of the crickets in
late August, past the tender
rays of the full orange sun
setting past the treeline, still
dancing among the clouds
in the early hours of evening,
yet I heard it – it was calling
out to me, so all I could do
was answer with a whisper
of my own. It was like the
early days of back and forth,
playing hide and seek in
messages, with shards and
pieces of silence laying broken,
shattered by the light breezes
falling on an autumn dusk.

Relief

If I could graffiti the sides
of all the buildings on your
daily route, I’d paint only in
shades of gray so you’d
understand just how many
ways I can think of you, and
dream of the days between
longing and love; how with
every variation of my paint
and sonnet, I was believing
in the sunset falling over the
crevice of the moon, reliving
the first memory of that eve
of the two of us as we painted
the sunrise in shades of blues,
predicting the future of how
many ways we could fall, never
thinking twice about defeat.

In Direction

I used to have a guided path
but my light burned out moons
ago, and I haven’t a match to
spark an idea – so I continue
walking, hoping for help from
the falling stars to hold my hand.
The terrain is rough and battered,
but my feet are worn in, so I take
one step, then one more and just
continue walking, waiting to cross
paths with another – holding onto
the idea, that they’ll have a light
to help me find my way home.

Four in the Morning.

After days on end, searching for an
explanation to the blue pen marks
at my whim, I have found solace
in the only truth at my disposal –
I am exhausted from missing you.
Your name has become synonymous
with silence, so I shout either out
towards the heavens, hoping for
three sparks of lightning, perhaps a
lone thunderstorm following the rain,
dropping down in smiles and buckets,
washing away memories drenched
in debris, so I can write soundly in
the midst of my blue inked dreams.

Thirty-Two.

Lost in the midst of an
action, surrounded by
shreds of distance, masked
in the frayed remains of
absence – I can still hear
the light fluttering of your
eyelashes in a repetition of
even numbered beats, as
though you were trying to
fly back towards me; if
only for those few seconds
lost in exploited silence,
there’s a sliver of light, and
perhaps that is why an
ounce of hope is both
destruction and discovery.

jazz.

It was the way the sultry beat
would drop at a moment’s
notice, lingering in the air to
be absorbed by hearts and
minds – breaking the meters
with repetitions and silence;
it was the way you moved
once the songs began, with
an element of grace swiftly
unpracticed, raw, and inviting.
Our love was a lot like jazz,
unpredictable, yet shaken, all
the while smooth at the soul –
I miss the melodies played to
only a trumpet and her sax,
at a beat only lovers can know.

Bundled Up.

I wear your silence as my
favorite blanket, warming me
as the nights turn to drinking
beers and watching the sun
fall sooner, the leaves changing
faster, all the while building up
wishes to cast on the stars.
You are still my favorite shade
of blue, silence be damned.
You are the comfort in a soft
embrace – the only warmth on
a night drunk on memories.
But your silence is still falling
as I had hoped my wish filled
stars would, and I can do nothing
but wrap myself up, and count
down the hours until the sun rises,
well past my wishes once again.

Boulder.

When I close my eyes
underneath the light of
the moon, it is you that I
dream of; sunlight kisses
over the mountains, crisp
breezes running fingers
through my hair, and sweet
gentle chatter over coffee
on Pearl Street. My heart
aches for your embrace –
hand in hand strolls beneath
the light of the stars, while
counting wishes of whispers
of hope, longing and love.
With every new moon, I
close my eyes, dreaming
of you and I – together
being home, once again.