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.
There are words between us
that neither will ever say – deeply
rooted in an honesty that burns,
touched by the stars in wishes
set with memories and distance
in time. We’re dancing between
the silence, swallowing the words
every time they nestle on our lips
as though actions aren’t speaking
loudest, while we can pretend the
words aren’t there, even though we
both know what the other cannot
say; whispering to the moon every
night under the blanket of stars
covered in second chances that
will one day consume us both.
In a rush of swollen blazes,
spewing ashes of autumn and
charcoal, where the half burnt
breezes are being carried out
as though fragments bare no
harm, and memories are only
as good as the dreams in which
they are kept; with the roots of
flames burning blue in the light
of love and smoke hovering past
realms of suffocation, waiting
for life to distinguish the blazes –
as though indecision was just a
game, with all of us left burning.
With every chill, I still reach
out for the warmth only found
in the middle of your embrace;
wrapping myself in memories
of waking with the rising of the
sun and curling up against you,
kissing the back of your neck
in an attempt to hear your light
giggle and sigh, warming my
heart with every sound, and
leaning further into your touch.
With only your old blanket and
my fallen memories, I am still
cold through the nights, in a
search of warming devotion.
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.
I spent yesterday in
silence, trying to
escape the repetition
of your name on my lips,
fleeing from my feeble
attempts at capturing
your beauty into verse;
yet even with a lack of
words, they circled
around my head, creating
visions of your laugh
reflecting off of the
outskirts of the light of
the moon, and I awakened
to a new kind of silent
poetry, and I was in love.
how will you decipher when
my words have shifted from
you to another? will you notice
when I stop mentioning your
eyelashes and how free they
make your spirit, or the rosy
tint of your cheeks as you
laugh to the heavens while
sipping on Jameson rocks?
I suppose it shouldn’t matter;
if you can continue seeing
yourself in my words, then at
least you still see yourself in
my heart, thinking of us too.
In a brush of silence
painted on your sleeve,
fraying at the seems
with a hem of honesty
mixed with tainted chaos –
It is my favorite blend
of colors, discreetly
and artistically crafted
in your scent from
ages drawn with the
curtains, only coming
through with the days
past early September.
I am eager for the shade
to return, wrapping
myself in warmth and
boundaries, bidding the
sun to retreat and for
my days to feel like
home, once again.
Storylines in Verse 