Just when the sun thought
she would never love again,
the world as she knew it
shifted, rotated, turning
everything right side up,
and she could still see
mountains, valleys and
lakes, and her hidden smile
returned with the memory
of the blush of the clouds –
before, she was only loving
with half her heart on the
world, and finally she could
open herself up, to love again.
I’m living three lies
short of a promise with
no helpful home in sight.
My survival reliant on
caffeine, nicotine, lack
of dreams, with no in
between, and I’ve never
been more friendly than
with the mask of night.
I dare not open my mouth
anymore, for I haven’t an
idea on which version of
the truth will come out;
I know only black lies,
white lies, and how to
swallow my pride – none
of which gets you back
on my side, so why try?
At the intersection of the busy and
very infrequent, where bike riders
would pass without helmets and
walkers would leisurely enjoy the
day amidst the hubble and bubble
of the downtown city; a place near
small commerce and residential with
patches of snow scattered on the
ground, and where I asked if I could
kiss you, on the corner of centennial
mall in the early hours of a morning
in late February. A corner for business
folk to pass by as they venture out of
the office for lunch to stop and gather
their favorite greasy delight, and where
drunks are stumbling to their cars or
someone’s car or just plain stumbling
around but with a purpose they are
telling themselves; where you said
yes, and I hadn’t even a moment to
gather a blush on my cheeks as I
kissed you, and thank goodness
I was leaning into you because my
knees gave way, and I would have
been kissing the ground instead. It is
a place scattered in the butts of lone
cigarettes, and pop cans, beer cans,
beer bottles, wrappers, gum and debris;
a place where most walk by and fail to
notice the sun, the breeze, the call of
the birds hovering in the distance, or
the laughter of the pedestrians as they
continue moving, never quite stopping
until they can whisper a complaint of
their busy lives in the comfort of their
own home. It’s an intersection of the
busy and the intermittent, and I can no
longer tell which one we are anymore.
they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.
The arrival of the storm
clouds, harboring darkness
in previous defeat, was my
only inclination that an
enemy of current state,
yet friend from long ago,
was making their way back
into my presence with a
stroke of hand and only
egos and lies following
in their wake – I was so
certain escaping the past
was easy, but only when it
no longer wants to be found.
I struck a match to call
in a favor, watching and
waiting as the smoke
billowed from the tips of
my fingers, heightening
in ashes and the cherry –
patience was never my
friend, as I longed for
time to escape me in
silence as I struck one
more match, hoping for
my luck to finally change.
I never follow my
desire and it costs
me a heartbeat,
every day of my life.
No action, no tears,
just a raw lack of
an all consuming
lifestyle brought
down with a break
in my day, when
my lungs contract
without a blood
flow transcending
into my soul; I am
delirious with a
desire that I can
no longer follow,
and I am not whole.
My words weren’t enough
so I stopped speaking them,
allowing them to burn at
the corners and crumble
in their own ashes, with
embers to chant past the
hurt and confusion, while
placing all bets on time
with only chance to spare.
Others called her by a three
letter name, I only ever knew
her as love personified – as
my muse dancing on the moon
between laughs of whiskey and
unreported jazz, sweet in a
rain of temptation yet sour
in a defeat of whispers and in
an attempt at people pleasing.
Still missing from my arms,
it was hard to let her go –
watching as she danced down
the aisles with two songs in
her heart, but only listening
to the one I couldn’t sing.
I still call out to her, but
she’s no longer listening to
my words, my cries in the night;
even as three in the morning
approaches and I’m lying in
bed with one ear on the phone
because I’m certain she’ll call.
No, I’m lost in the night sky,
trying to come up with some
other name to call her – but
nothing else can replace love.
I am at my saddest knowing
that listening to others opinion
is still ruled in favor of following
your own heart; not being able to
love or laugh beyond memories
cast twice in words and written
in the shadows of the moon.
We have nothing left but time to
fix, yet unless these words are
whispered by another they are no
longer truth, but rapid successions
of a lonely, still beating heart.
Storylines in Verse 