with the echoing of jazz
past the crisp autumn air
falling into the rhythm of
leaves dancing sonnets
to the ground; with beats
of percussions and lonely
hearts holding on to stars
in the earliest hours of the
morning, waiting in sought
after transition of the sun –
still smiling albeit curious,
with the rise and eminent
fall of indecision, breaking
daylight with every peak of
hesitation and whispering
echoes of jazz, only to fall.
Painted against the glass
in concrete memories of blue,
where a laugh and a whisper
could collide in a gentle sigh
drifting deeply into the night
behind the smile in your eyes;
where the traces of the moon
are light brushes of my fingers
against your ever warming skin,
I kissed your lips and whispered
that I still loved you – the first
time in months those words fell
from my lips, but always circling
my heart. With a look back at the
portrait painted in glass, two lovers
hand in hand, leaning into the other’s
sigh, with an escape of the moon,
circling us in love and in blue.
between whispers and sonnets
we could cover the landscape of
the moon, carving out milestones
in memories and gentle lullabies
swaying in-between constellations,
fragments of stars and promises.
together we can illuminate the sky
past dusk, with hope just on the
horizon and a laughter of colorful
verse to lighten the darkness; with
each other hand in hand, we can
create the crevices of the moon to
hold our secrets, until we can find
the words to wish onto the world.
With two heartbeats past
three in the morning, when
even the crickets are trying to
rest and the trees are refusing
to budge in the light whistling
breeze of the moon and stars,
when the cold floorboards are
creaking beneath my footsteps,
with the gentle soothing sounds
of whispers at my touch – I am
alone with the choices you had
made, without a second notice
to the sound of my heartbeat,
shifting amongst the silence in
a city that only seems to sleep
when thoughts become burdens.
We were alternating
writing chapters of our
story; yours were always
longer, while I was rushing
to get to the finish, trying to
figure out how it all ends, and
you were right – I was missing
all of the little things, details on
the page, not stopping to take a
breath with every little change
in verse. You said it was time
for us to rewrite our chapters
separately, and then you left.
I hadn’t any idea on how to
start, except to take a deep
breath, and to try detailing
out every memory that I
was missing out on in
your absence – filling
pages with chapters
of what I hoped
would turn into
a new middle,
not a fantasy
about our
ending.
It was one of those lazy
Sunday afternoons, with
the reflections of the sun
glistening off the ripples
of the bay, showcasing
all of the answers to the
questions I never thought
to ask, with the laughter
of the children echoing past
my daydreams, when I saw
the first butterfly of this lost
season floating by me – it
was innocent and endearing;
promising to the new one
ahead. I tried to grab hold,
but like change it was quite
unpredictable, yet always
eager for us to take notice.
It was only a whisper
heard amongst the soft
echoing of the crickets in
late August, past the tender
rays of the full orange sun
setting past the treeline, still
dancing among the clouds
in the early hours of evening,
yet I heard it – it was calling
out to me, so all I could do
was answer with a whisper
of my own. It was like the
early days of back and forth,
playing hide and seek in
messages, with shards and
pieces of silence laying broken,
shattered by the light breezes
falling on an autumn dusk.
I used to have a guided path
but my light burned out moons
ago, and I haven’t a match to
spark an idea – so I continue
walking, hoping for help from
the falling stars to hold my hand.
The terrain is rough and battered,
but my feet are worn in, so I take
one step, then one more and just
continue walking, waiting to cross
paths with another – holding onto
the idea, that they’ll have a light
to help me find my way home.
After days on end, searching for an
explanation to the blue pen marks
at my whim, I have found solace
in the only truth at my disposal –
I am exhausted from missing you.
Your name has become synonymous
with silence, so I shout either out
towards the heavens, hoping for
three sparks of lightning, perhaps a
lone thunderstorm following the rain,
dropping down in smiles and buckets,
washing away memories drenched
in debris, so I can write soundly in
the midst of my blue inked dreams.
When I close my eyes
underneath the light of
the moon, it is you that I
dream of; sunlight kisses
over the mountains, crisp
breezes running fingers
through my hair, and sweet
gentle chatter over coffee
on Pearl Street. My heart
aches for your embrace –
hand in hand strolls beneath
the light of the stars, while
counting wishes of whispers
of hope, longing and love.
With every new moon, I
close my eyes, dreaming
of you and I – together
being home, once again.
Storylines in Verse 