A look of pure
rush and gold,
swirling with
your eyelashes,
creating sparks
of love and
wonder, overcast
in shadows of
absence and
harsh silence.
I am still
crawling, knees
burnt in the
afterglow; just
keep throwing
me your signs
sweet temptress,
I am yours.
With nothing left to do
but stare out the window,
I count memories as they come
plummeting down, watching
as they fall and crash
drop by drop, day by day,
creating puddles and hurdles
in their crestfallen wake –
but you can’t see them anymore;
it must be sunny in Florida.
As the heat began to drop,
the sun looming over the
tops of the treeline,
I was hit with that
unnerving realization
that while I wasn’t
eager, nor exactly
willing – it was time
to let go, and breathe.
Watch the sun fade,
christening the stars
as I focused on the
colors and shades
no longer the whys,
just one last time –
I was ready. It wasn’t
home but I’m sure
that I’ll be missed.
On the bare walls
of our old apartment,
memories are playing
like reels on repeat,
showcasing dances of
first every things
overlapping with what
would become our lasts;
cries are no longer
the sound of the room,
instead replaced with
our song, that I can’t
bring myself to listen
to, playing on mute –
pleading with me to
simply ask of you,
if you even struggle
half as much as I do?
The days this summer
are ticking away,
falling frail to new
anniversaries, and
bonfires scattering
about purple and blue
ashes of the past,
tenfold – relying
solely on memories to
carry the weight of what
was once forever,
swept up in embers,
forcibly cast away.
We loved in the way
we thought each other
wanted to be loved –
trying to frame the
torn edges of one
another into moldings
to be put on display.
Only being watched
as we were tumbled,
falling strands away.
I had put my
favorite jazz record
on, saddened I had
never taken you
to that club like
I promised;
but all I heard
on repeat was the
sound of your name
brushing my lips,
echoing cries
against a trumpet
and her sax, of a
love won then lost,
true jazz.
I had gone to that
old spot Sunday;
walking in, daring
not to sit outside
in good ol’ booth
number two – instead
forcing the patrons
awkward attention as
I grabbed a table of
six, for just myself
and a Guinness.
Smokers outside,
sipping in-between
under cooled beers
and vodka rocks;
corner pockets,
scratches, and arcade
games, the end of the
bar – lone road.
Knowing it wasn’t
the same here
anymore, I ordered
another and toasted
off to the memories,
waiting for you to
come and make your
final appearance.
I’ll never know how to say goodbye –
do I whisper it softly and allow
it to fade off beyond the skyline,
harmonizing with the sweet moments
captured in between the colors of
the sun reflecting off the trees,
or do I slice it in half, bitter
at the core with the pain and anger
that is raging through my thoughts;
the hurt beyond my control as I want
to flee and run circles and scream
all in the moments of your turning
away, with two knifes in my side?
Tell me please, before you leave me.
Storylines in Verse 