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.

All of Me.

She is the softest of songs
set to jazz, where even the
wisps of her silence send
my heart crooning, and I 
can only succumb to the
melodies of her eyelashes
fluttering past the tunes in
transition – she is my muse,
decorating my dreams set
to tunes of a trumpet and
her sax, in the company of
love, despite her absence.
She has left, to places just
outside of my reach, but
wherever she travels, she
takes all of me with her.


I could have sworn to the right
side of heaven, you’d never put
me through this hell; forcing the
silence to deliver your goodbye
as you quiver inside memories
of us swearing we’d never say
such words, light at the touch
and too fragile to fall, as though
it was only another action left for
us mere mortals here on earth, too
confined in confrontation to bare
witness – so you can preach your
silences, I’ll still speak the fluid
language of love, meant only for
your ears, even if you can’t hear
me past your goodbyes left silent.


If my words mean nothing
then why do you shed light
on them during the hours
following the break of the
moon – filling your thoughts
with serenades and sonnets
of the love that I have for you,
which you aren’t allowing to
grow; bending the edges of
the words into hardened and
misshapen truths as though
honesty is the reality you’re
running from, and I am the
keeper of twice painted lies.

The gamble.

I played my final hand,
knowing the odds against
my favor, as all I needed
was the queen of hearts
nestled deeply behind the
blue print found in your
hand – as I waited patiently
for you to lay your cards on
the table, and yet instead of
taking all that was left of me,
you got up, silently walking
away, taking your cards and
my queen of heart with you.

Tragedy of Life.

I lived long enough to see
myself become the villain
in my own narrative; once
the hero, fighting tragedy
at the hands of a happily
ever after, only to lose sight
of my fights, while taking a
bitter sword against myself –
twice for the blushes, once
for a lie. Burning morals
like bridges against those
non believers, reciting lies
with a sharp tongue to view
chances past my cause; left
to put together pieces of my
own destruction with only a
realization that I’ve become
my own target, left to fight.

And so it goes…

I had spent the summer
in false hope and delusion,
placing every effort in my
attempts to tame the wind,
believing once captured, I
could silence the storms,
rocking them gently with
sonnets and lullabies, only
to fail with every lash and
blow; but now it is autumn,
with only the promises of
leaves falling, granting me
new memories to tame, with
every whistle of the breezes.

So we burn…

In a rush of swollen blazes,
spewing ashes of autumn and
charcoal, where the half burnt
breezes are being carried out
as though fragments bare no
harm, and memories are only
as good as the dreams in which
they are kept; with the roots of
flames burning blue in the light
of love and smoke hovering past
realms of suffocation, waiting
for life to distinguish the blazes –
as though indecision was just a
game, with all of us left burning.

LV Letters – Four

I wrote down every letter
in curves and slants in a
constant repetition of the
words I longed to say to
you – the characterization
of every verse loaded with
a kiss, a promise, and a
meaning that would only
fall apart with punctuation.
Every letter was bleeding
in blue ink from my mind,
hoping for a chance to be
read by you, to be seen as
though you alone could see
into my heart and realize
what kept it beating – but
words are only words until
put into action, and it was
just one of the many love
letters, I could never send.


It all comes down to patience,
a steady quality I do not have –
where time is only considered
a burden, and the silences are
screaming lies and indecisions
as I attempt to cast myself into
dreams of hope, where the only
truths are painted in sought after
realizations too painful to bare
as my heart is still echoing your
name; the constant fear of never
again and lone tales of distance
spreading out like ashes in the
breeze, where your name falls
like ice from my lips as I am
hesitant to break the silence for
the fear of your answers is the
only thing worse than waiting.