Fifty-Seven

The days fell to gray,
darkened by the turn
of winter’s kiss, where
the snow was meant to
fall as soft blankets of
white, creating visions
of a lovers wonderland,
hand in hand with the
night; yet the snow was
left shaken in a refusal
to fall, leaving an earth
left to gray, cold hearted
and bleak, with only the
falling of lovers to weep.

Come What May

I will chase you into tomorrow
as midnight falls onto a lonely
hour, where words are falling
like change onto the pavements,
with the whispers of newly cast
resolutions echoing against the
alleyways bound to be lost by
sunrise – I will follow you into
the new year, where memories
are disregarded as unnecessary
change, and change is viewed as
successfully winning the lottery;
it’s the realm of new possibilities
or perhaps just any other day, but
no matter what happens, I’ll still
be by your side, come what may.

Anniversary

I saw December in your eyes,
frost at the edges with a warmth
fulfilling promises of a firelight
romance building at your core –
with dreams and memories of us
creating visions of a wonderland
of truth and love, you asked me
to be yours with a hopeful desire
I already was; and I always was.
With a simple yes, we set ablaze
a love jealous only of the sun and
moon, circling hearts and writing
sonnets in the snow; we were us
again, and December was ours

Nightmare

I crashed into sleep last night,
tumbling down a nightmare of
a rabbit hole, where love was
obsolete and solace was sought
after like a sacred form of drug,
mythical and scarce, as though
I wasn’t accustomed to comfort
inside my lover’s arms- I broke
by the minute, reaching out for
an arm to hold, only continuing
to fall further in a delusional and
obscure hell, where I was both a
ringmaster and victim, bound by
my subconscious, searching for
the remains of my piloted dream.

Love on Vinyl

In the depths of silence
flowing against rhythms
of loss and love, without
your touch to help guide,
I am havoc into myself;
building barriers to cage
my own heart as though
I am not a carefree soul,
limited only to paper and
blue inked pen – but that’s
not us darling, together we
are rain falling and songs
playing on vinyl, creating
our own rhythms of love
to play against the silence
even if only we can hear.

Dreamers, Believers

While the sun bids farewell,
descending behind the skyline
of mountaintops, seducing the
dreamers while gently laying
their hearts to rest and tracing
the foothills in lazy patterns of
their minds, I am entranced by
another day – we, the dreamers,
wanderers, soul searchers of the
heavens, continue each day with
a dance of seduction led by the
sun and ending with the moon.

Skies of Winter

The skies of winter
have my name written
in pink and gray muted
hues, as though we had
been close friends once,
bonded together by the
falling snow within small
crevices of concrete and
truths, where the slightest
whistle was calling upon
the winds to join us – the
skies of winter are a lost
friend, long forgotten in
the blinding lights of the
holidays, buried inside a
forthcoming of snow as
though that were all they
had left to share with us.

Thankful

In the darkest mornings
of early winter, when the
sun cannot separate from
the moon, and when I am
wrapped inside your arms
willing the day to continue
on with us blissfully in an
embrace, as though we do
not have responsibilities or
matters at hand not just of
the heart – those mornings
I am thankful for, those are
our little slices of imperfect
perfections, bound tightly as
the love of the sun and moon.

Spare Change

As the light began to fall
against the unseen side of
mountains, where dreams
are laid to rest, and where
promises are sprouting up
like trees, I buried my own
heart; longing for the height
to kiss the moon each night,
with the gentle songs of the
morning birds taking shelter
by my roots, I was fading by
the mountainside with only
hope and spare change, and
somehow that was enough.

3am

I’ve reached the crumbled shells
of disappointment rooted inside
your kiss – we’ve reached tattered
remains of lies and discontent in
the hours belonging to truth and
I cannot fathom how we got here.

It’s the loneliest hour as I am found
beside myself and beside the bed,
unable to crawl into the comfort
we had once shared, knowing that
you will not be there. I am hurting,
always hurting and you never saw.

I will myself not to cry, for my tears
will go unheard, with no release of
thoughts or pain, so I simply refrain.
I am the loneliest hour, pounding on
the doors of my own heart to let go;
I know disappointment far too well.