Resolutions, Past

She lives on the outskirts
of dreams, where hope goes
to grow past the daisies and
champagne, where the bitter
trenches of a rainstorm half
past the season barrel in like
a stampede. She loves and lies
half past the imaginary set to
imagery, of dreams she once
grew from the roots of ashes to
set her free; running wild past
the outskirts of resolutions, past
daisy chains and restless nights,
where hope no longer grows like
the Gatsby champagne flows.

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Musings (In Fear)

In the hours faded from
your touch, the thoughts
creep back in, and I am
left to ignore the marks
of burnt skin from the
touch you once lovingly
gave another, even with
my name set in flames
across your heart; I fear
the reprisal and a replay
once more, where time
does not sing and ashes
are left behind to repair
strained memories, as
though even fear cannot
burn away the imprints
of another and where my
touch cannot replace them.

Revival

I carried onto love,
gently balanced on
my sleeve – where
light touches would
tremble with a kiss,
a promise lingered
past a wish of the
heart, and the look
in your eyes as the
moon finally rose
each night, set my
heart ablaze with
the delicacy of the
stars falling from
the sky in wishes,
folded into dreams.

Reflections in Sound

I held onto her laughter
as an echo past her heart,
beating out sonnets to a
fair rhythm of jazz in the
rain – where each giggle,
lightened in a sigh was a
stem of a heartbeat left to
blossom in the reflections
of the rising moon. I held
on tighter to her laughter,
tangled inside my embrace
as newly found promises,
hoping to bottle them up,
and set my dreams on fire,
with the echoed chanting
of a sonnet kissing the rain.

LV Letters – Eight

I searched the sky
for stars at half past
the moon, looking to
make a wish; instead
I found them hidden
in her eyes – with two
blinks past butterflies
set as her eyelashes,
she is my own kind
of constellation, and I
am caught in visions
of her dreams, soaring
between Capricorn and
the Leo, following the
stars until love at dawn.

Footsteps

I had let the beats of my heart
lead my footsteps back to you,
with echoes of jazz in every
sway and a melody of our song
floating in the trees, lost to the
rapid fire of daydreams – with
hope as my guidance, following
chants of your laughter behind
the softest of smiles left for me.
I had only the memory of your
love as I marched on; following
your footsteps back to the days
when jazz was more than just
love, and you and I were more
than just home – where I could
pull you close, and never let go.

Forty-Seven

I miss your soft eyelashes
fluttering like the puttering
down of rain, soothing me
into lullabies of jazz and
dreams – where innocence
is sweeping through your
arms like the gentle winds
calling me to play. I miss
the light echo of my name
on your lips like the calling
of birds chanting out stories
with the passing of the rain,
in sonnets and daydreams;
yet with every storm, I still
miss the rainbow, promising
wishes of your final return.

Verses in December.

I crave dreams set in stone,
set to rhythms and poetry –
where blue ink smears and
the image of loving you is
still found on every page;
where futures are blended
with memories, and words
are more than a destruction
of promises. I crave desire
like the paper needs the pen
to bleed – masquerading as
the sonnet struck out in ink,
as I had once loved you in a
dream, and never stopped.

Forty-Six

I can’t count the ways
in which I miss you, past
the sound of my name on
your lips – a light brush of
a kiss with every syllable,
in a gentle serenade of a
dance built on jazz; with
echoes of desire laced in
the curves of each letter,
as the softest graze of my
memory brushes your lips,
trembling my spirits from
hopeful assent to ashes at
dusk, always missing you.