with the cooling final
days of summer, I took
to my match and pen to
ignite my first and only
bonfire of the season;
tearing apart the wooden
foundations of my past
one wall at a time and
ripping out the faded love
letters of my journal to
set aflame. they burnt in
a golden haze past the
hours of the moon, never
to see the daylight again.
Like a firework sparking
the July sky, I sent out
love and rubble up to the
heavens in colors of once
sought after desire, with
splashes inside swirls of
harmonious release, in an
attempt at pining promise
into each new droplet of
the upcoming autumn rain.
It was the back and forth
calling at the docks, with
tides turning into waves,
splashing for attention
but still going unanswered
as you heard the creak of
wood, and still chose to
stand with your back turned,
one eye on the sky – even
the ocean couldn’t bring
you home; it was just our
chatter of promises, left
rummaging in the waters,
pleading with the dock for
an ounce of breath or a
guided light back safely.
It was the first cool night
this summer, with the wind
whispering to the trees about
ages ago – back when we would
be sitting on the porch trying
to count the promises that we
heard in the echoes alongside
the rose bushes; back when we
were wishing on fireflies for
fire pits, not second chances
or warm rebuttals. Even with
the haze on the horizon and
a promise of stars, it was
making me homesick for fall.
Storylines in Verse 