With the looming question of
what I see when I gaze upon
you, in every ounce of silence
between us, I can only reply:
you are love and innocence
back at twenty one, standing
at the corner with me, as I’m
wearing my worn heart on
my sleeve asking to kiss you.
My face growing pale with
every second, as yours only
grows in shades of pink as
you whisper yes – the light
sigh from your lips being
carried into the breezes,
returning me to home.
The words so fearlessly hung
from her lips, yet she refused
to speak them in the darkest
hours of untold truth – instead
struggling to gather strength to
mumble echoes from her heart
that would cause cracks in my
own unsteady foundation. She
was aware of very little beyond
the coming farewell, but she
spoke with a certainty of it in
her heart and it showed on the
delicate lips that I used to be
allowed to kiss with my own
certainty goodnight, yet now
had to casually watch tremble
as she tried repeatedly to say
the words that went beyond a
promise. Those words fearless,
yet the actions were fading in
moments as I turned to kiss her
lips one last time in memory.
hope was numbered in days,
limited to dash marks on the
calendar, set to the rising of
the sun and then moon; as if
time was not a destructive
enough force, twisting and
bending hope into fragments
of the truth, believing in the
idea of second chances long
past memories in disguise.
with every newly fallen star
we were running out of days
to count – lies to believe and
truths to alter into our own
interpretations, calling them
hope as though we could hold
them in our embrace, tightly
bound in possibilities, to help
lighten the nights when the
stars are refusing to shine.
You are the subtle laughter
that fills a promise with hope;
a voyage amongst the stars in
the darkest hours of the night
with the late whistling tunes
of an autumn evening breeze.
You are the dream and desire,
parading around my thoughts
in metaphors set to sonnets –
half past lasting perfection in
rhythms of blues kissed by
last year’s jazz. You are my
love, as pure as the falling of
the first snow, coming home.
Summer had finally ended
in a blaze, and now autumn
was retreating in the glistened
promise of snow before winter;
where the falling of the clouds
overlooking heaven was a sight
of Romance in November – a
new change in the subtle days,
where the gentle tug of breezes
was an embrace to be found, as
my favorite of all kinds of love
stories. This was a new kind of
season, where the snow met a
match to burn; it was beauty in
transition, and it was all ours.
I craved the innocence
of a dream set to poetry,
where the blue ink swirls
masqueraded as sonnets
set in a tune of the trees,
billowing past lone breezes
that seemed to only cry in
the hours of free verse and
rhyme; where the rustle of
the autumn days, left me
craving the purity of past
wishes carved in the stars,
where reality had left, and
all I had were my dreams
whispering onto the page.
Storylines in Verse 