I still feared the silence
like the edge of a knife
constantly pointed at my
back, left to breathe in
the syllables of words
counted as half truths
with only hope past the
horizon, guiding me into
open arms and a dagger;
caught between moving
forward and not looking
back, with only the sharp
pressure against my spine
keeping me standing still.
In the trees, where the light
rustle of the branches against
the falling of ice and then snow
are collecting like sonnets sung
in early December, where the
reflections from the streets are
chanting melodies and memories,
where my love for you came in
like a winter wind’s kiss, leaving
a blush on your cheeks – you are
the innocent beauty that comes
back to me with the falling snow,
decorating my thoughts in desires
of repetitions of the season, lightly
blanketing my heart with whistles
of love, rustling against the trees.
With two sways of the ink
I was penning my heart in
verse; a storyline of a love
I wished would have no end.
Blending promises from the
edge of my pen, into nights
of hope, left to carry on with
every new moon. I was the
writer and she was my poem;
carrying love with each new
storyline starting with a sole
concept of beauty beyond
the heart, where every word I
knew, came from loving her.
I’ve grown weary of the
distance between two stars,
it must be filled in silence
that battles the mind and
heart – left to trap echoes
of longing and lost love,
as though reflections of
stars shine brightest inside
truth and honesty past the
goodbyes, despite the time
in distance; never to reach
out towards a love to hold.
It wasn’t a soft graze,
left to timid lips and
hands like before –
you held passion in
a kiss, interlocking
truths of our hearts
with every sway of
a sigh, with trailing
hands mapping out
missed constellations
across our bodies as
the night kept warm
in our thoughts, with
us once more on the
verge of hope and a
lasting discovery.
she is my favorite of poems,
constantly changing in shifts
of creativity, burning from the
edges of the page and sinking
into blue ink stains – her verses
are curved in rhythms of gold
mixed with champagne, with a
light echo of memories swirling
in the blank spaces between the
daydreams and jazz. she is my
kind of poetry, a verse free from
rhyme and restriction, painting
the inside of my heart in words
set to love and possibilities in a
future cast in the clouds for two.
Within two shades of silence,
I am still wishing the idea of your
name on my lips, whistling away
blushes of memories against my
reflection, hoping for a change of
season to cradle me in their arms
as nights are growing longer, with
the days burning to ashes. I am
battling the silence of my mind
versus the quietness in my heart,
where I cannot fathom a victor, for
neither are leading me back to you.
I’ve spent too many nights
staring at the stars for loose
answers to notice the path I
was wandering; left and then
right, my feet continuing on
while my head was caught in
longings of the future, with a
step in the right or the wrong
direction, no one was capable
of saying, as I ventured on my
own, lonely meandering past
sonnets and lost daydreams,
naming each star as a desire
to be near you as I passed.
With the looming question of
what I see when I gaze upon
you, in every ounce of silence
between us, I can only reply:
you are love and innocence
back at twenty one, standing
at the corner with me, as I’m
wearing my worn heart on
my sleeve asking to kiss you.
My face growing pale with
every second, as yours only
grows in shades of pink as
you whisper yes – the light
sigh from your lips being
carried into the breezes,
returning me to home.
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.
Storylines in Verse 