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.
I couldn’t describe your absence
between the vowels in silence –
a sharpened dusting of gray
rooted in the crevices of the
carpet to the popcorned ceiling,
screaming out memories of images
faded and burned at the corners,
dancing down the halls at a
quarter past two, most nights –
breaking vases and picture frames,
leaving shards of glass on the
floor to shine and gleam from
the light of tomorrow that
seems to never want to return.
But just as I’m befriending the
darkness, the sun rises again
taunting me with wordless sing
alongs about times months before,
begging and baiting me to join –
illuminating the apartment with
paintings on the walls of what
could have been, and what will
no longer be – and I scream.
The silence may be broken, but
your absence is still teasing me
between the vowels of moving on.
I want to be wrapped in your arms,
with your touch promising me words
of always, not your half hushed
whispers of things getting better;
actions become facts, and words
become sharpened knives in
battles of broken hearts my dear,
you taught me that once upon
a time – when all I had were
fairy tales and dreams of love.
when I love you meant everything;
where everything else I could
always look the other way on.
Because I loved like the
horizon to the ocean –
never getting to hold them
but still sparking sunsets
and warmth every time I see them,
doing everything in my power to love
them throughout the days and my best
to let them shine alone in the nights.
It’s no longer the dreams come true,
white picket fences and happily
ever afters – it’s wanting to be wrapped
in each other on a Sunday afternoon
kissing and dozing the time away,
with stories of white knights,
damsels and talking frogs, whose
fantasies will never compete with
our own imaginary reality.
at last I speak to question
the fateful path of life’s lies.
and burden our humble hearts
with caffeinated meager highs.
aware I stand loyally
with death ridden butterflies,
I plead with my late night drink
to grind out the pleading cries.
too late the doors are closing,
and I but a passerby
am quite aware I live on
the side not meant for I,
and so I drink in as much
and leave my words for the wise,
take with each an ounce of love
to soften too soon goodbyes.
Storylines in Verse 