Forever Dancers

You had one question,
wrapped around the idea
of one little verse, a slight
symphony of the heart, in
which you and I had once
been dancers, gracefully
swaying to the tempos of
love – you had asked, and
I said yes, with the rapid
beating of our hearts as we
took our final bow as mere
lovers, moving on into the
world as fianc├ęs; forever
dancers, in this life of love.

Nebraska

Nebraska, hold me close
like all those summers ago,
when the warmth of the sun’s
rays bled through the open
windows, casting light onto
our hearts as we lay tangled
in bed after many days apart.
Hold me close like the early
days, when love was always
on our minds as we sprawled
out on blankets counting the
spaces between the stars and
filling them with our dreams.
Nebraska, embrace my heart,
like all those summers ago,
as waking up next to you was
the most beautiful sight I had
seen, when you became love,
basking in the summer heat.
Hold me Nebraska; hold my
heart and kiss my dreams.

Love as My Words

I saw clarity in your eyes
when you looked towards
me with love; an unspoken
sonnet laced between two
hearts, filtered with the last
breath of a poet and longing,
with you as my canvas and
love as my words. I am the
poet, and you are my poem,
delicate in transition and full
of a lovers gaze – where we
set our sights on one another
in secret longing, and in full
ambition; we are ink kissing
the page, bound inside love.

dance.

I took a chance at romance,
swaying between the pillars
of you and I, where I could
grab your hand in an elegant
twirl, siting you, my moon,
to be the most beautiful girl,
as we lived happily, dancing
beneath the sky. With every
step, and every spin, I held
your heart and pulled you in,
as we were lovers, braving
the night – I took your hand
and the dance began, as we
swayed gently, just you and I.

Infinity and Beyond

We said goodbye to dusk,
filtered in the shadows of
the stars, with the subtlety
of the sun looming over the
darkening horizon – we lost
ourselves under the lights of
the sky, sun-kissed in gentle
waves of a pleasure and in a
promise; we held on to each
other, knowing our own limits
but with the subtle passing of
glances between the sun and
moon, we had realized how a
love could truly be so infinite.

Twenty-One.

With an ounce of
temptation trapped
in the third to last kiss,
I saw a future cast
before my eyes of white
lace and black candlesticks,
walking down a strip to a
sunset morrow whispering
away the final days of
summer, laughing until
the stars could no longer
illuminate the sky, when I
was your bride and
everything else was lost in
the hobble of vows and words,
holding on until the second
to last brush of lips when
temptation had dissipated
with the heat of the rising sun;
those are the moments
trapped in ounces of memories
never to become undone.

Sunday’s are the worst…

I want to be wrapped in your arms,
with your touch promising me words
of always, not your half hushed
whispers of things getting better;
actions become facts, and words
become sharpened knives in
battles of broken hearts my dear,
you taught me that once upon
a time – when all I had were
fairy tales and dreams of love.
when I love you meant everything;
where everything else I could
always look the other way on.
Because I loved like the
horizon to the ocean –
never getting to hold them
but still sparking sunsets
and warmth every time I see them,
doing everything in my power to love
them throughout the days and my best
to let them shine alone in the nights.
It’s no longer the dreams come true,
white picket fences and happily
ever afters – it’s wanting to be wrapped
in each other on a Sunday afternoon
kissing and dozing the time away,
with stories of white knights,
damsels and talking frogs, whose
fantasies will never compete with
our own imaginary reality.

Choices

It was nothing more than words;
yet no note, no apology, no voice.
The silence surrounding your actions
was speaking volumes past our memories.
A false tear to fall here, there –
mumbles about how that wasn’t home,
followed by sighs, and promises
that wouldn’t make it to the trash.

You let me hold you that night,
a truth that’d never pass your lips.
Perhaps, that was your goodbye –
a tell-tale sign of cowardice,
mixed with betrayal, and fatigue.
I was only searching for two words,
buried and set aflame in June –
just speak with me darling, come home.

Eight.

With every whip of my pen,
wrinkled parchment and landscape,
I bleed caution in ink,
daring my voice to
artistically craft her beauty
in lines and white space –
envisioning her giggle and sigh
as she traces lines of muse.

She is my first thought and last –
straddling the lines,
hovering in creativity,
bleeding ink and thoughts
into words crossed out and read.

She inspires my days,
my stars, and the nights –
beauty manifested in
illustrations of golden haze.

I spend weeks
tracing the contours of her skin,
eager for inspiration to
develop and strike
ballads and sonnets,
literary heroism at its finest.

Yet no muse has ever touched
as sweetly with such a wicked
lash and streak –
violent temper to refrain
in poetic mortality.

She is ice in June,
blinding in twilight,
shining in starlight and sun –
fitting yet resistant
to lay in paper and share
her beauty to the world
in verse, in lines,
in love and rhymes.