I saw clarity in your eyes
when you looked towards
me with love; an unspoken
sonnet laced between two
hearts, filtered with the last
breath of a poet and longing,
with you as my canvas and
love as my words. I am the
poet, and you are my poem,
delicate in transition and full
of a lovers gaze – where we
set our sights on one another
in secret longing, and in full
ambition; we are ink kissing
the page, bound inside love.
The weight of my world
bared the absence of three
days of life, nestled in the
crook of my shoulders and
left with a weight I could
not carry – three days over,
yet three days weaker with
the constant absence rooted
into my skin, tainted with a
marking left to represent my
pride, as though absence had
become my savior and I was
only weakened by the weight
of a world I no longer knew.
As the gentlest of escapes,
I’d close my eyes and you’d
become the dream fulfilling
all forms of fantasy, where I
never have to close my eyes
at night, never leaving behind
the beauty of your smile, and
where you and I can dance on
the moon, half steps as I twirl
you in time to our song set to
jazz; where we can travel all
of the world in the time of the
setting sun, painting our hearts
as one in shades of yellow and
red, where I can pull you close,
whispering my love in sonnets,
where I only ever wake myself
up, knowing you’re in my arms.
We had taken a subtle walk,
watching the leaves die gently,
in the softest light of the trees,
feeling the wind kiss our backs
as we strolled on, counting the
minutes and days pass before
our eyes as summer fell to fall,
autumn blowing into the early
stages of winter, and the trees
growing bare, taking root in the
season, as we continued to walk
on, wandering and left waiting;
always waiting as time changed,
masked behind death and growth
as we all continued on, walking
and never stopping to take notice.
Somewhere in the transition
of my love for you and being
allowed to love you once more,
I lost my voice – gone were the
words that flew so easily from
my pen, left instead to the blue
inked stains smeared across the
pages, crossed out and repeated
twice more until love itself had
become this illusion and I could
no longer convey my affection
without the promise of bleeding
my heart on the page, and in my destruction, my voice withdrew;
leaving behind thoughts I could
not put into words, strangled by
time and longing, as though upon
its death, the truth could be free.
She is the subtle color of blue
on the horizon at dusk, slight
out of center while holding the
sun in her arms, cradling her to
sleep with a lullaby of the stars;
she is the color of blue washing
up on shore with gentle kisses
along the beach, serenading the
sand in slight rhythms of waves
and ripples past dawn. She is my
color of blue illuminated off the
moon between the hours of love
and an embrace, as gentle as the
night and fierce as the waves, she
carries my love through all shades
of life, whispering sonnets in blue.
Storylines in Verse 