late nights

Shoebox

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Scraped together in mementos
of happier days and longing nights
are pieces of rubble from a broken
heart; cast in half light candles of
that first evening we spent beneath
the stars, with notes gently battered
back and forth, written in the keno
crayon that we’d slide across the bar
as though we could not get enough
of showcasing our love, by way of
stolen heartbeats and a future mapped
out in beer stains and crayon – left to
gather together in daydreams lost as
debris, stuffed in a shoebox, as worn
as my heart, filtered away in hope, set
to hold all pieces of my memories.

Reflections in Red.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

With the last of my wishes
burning by the stars, in tones
of washed up hues left by the
falling sun, I took a chance at
whispering your name – letting
it nestle on my lips as I tried to
hold it in my embrace one last
time, watching memories float
like lost lanterns to the skyline;
counting my final wishes rising
with the stars yet falling like ash
in time of the burning sun, as I
wait under the darkened hues of
night for my name to echo back.

Travelers.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I spent the evening
counting the pathway
through the stars to get
back into your arms –
veering left at the Leo
as the light blush of
the breeze helps carry
me past long forgotten
constellations and lone
memories, believing in
possibilities reflected
off the gaze of the last
stars, knowing my path
to be long and darkened
by the night sky, I will
still find my way home.

Orbit

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I sat two hours in the cold,
gazing at the moon in her
far away beauty; half of her
always hidden away in true
darkness, the parts that only
I knew, with a heavy heart.
Her smile unwavering even
amongst the temptation of
the stars, a curvature in true
form, with my hands reaching
out ready to hold if ever she
should fall, whispering sonnets
and lullabies; only shining the
brightest in my steady arms.

Thirty-Four.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

With two heartbeats past
three in the morning, when
even the crickets are trying to
rest and the trees are refusing
to budge in the light whistling
breeze of the moon and stars,
when the cold floorboards are
creaking beneath my footsteps,
with the gentle soothing sounds
of whispers at my touch – I am
alone with the choices you had
made, without a second notice
to the sound of my heartbeat,
shifting amongst the silence in
a city that only seems to sleep
when thoughts become burdens.

Twenty- Five.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

It was the first cool night
this summer, with the wind
whispering to the trees about
ages ago – back when we would
be sitting on the porch trying
to count the promises that we
heard in the echoes alongside
the rose bushes; back when we
were wishing on fireflies for
fire pits, not second chances
or warm rebuttals. Even with
the haze on the horizon and
a promise of stars, it was
making me homesick for fall.

My Moon,

Posted on by Amber S Morse

The stars have become my enemy
as I gaze across them each night
when my eyes and mind won’t sleep,
as they get to be in your presence
rocking you soundly to sweet dreams
of sunshine and half cast metaphors.

City

Posted on by Amber S Morse

it was jazz.
it was love.

on the streets, after dark,
and underneath the lights
of the city where the
stars were meant to shine,
but were hidden between

smog and smoke,
there was a note,
a key, a lyric,
and a voice.

there was love found
on this corner,
and there was compassion
in the music.

I heard him sing;
a raspy voice,
calloused hands
skillfully playing guitar,
with a mind
of dedication and more.

he called it jazz.

I didn’t think it was.
but I called it lovely, all the same.

Five (In Yellow).

Posted on by Amber S Morse

In the brazen-induced hours
of a Wednesday night,
she was decadence in yellow –
falling too early to
ashes and smoke rising.
Dancing among the
sidewalk cracks, cigarettes,
broken hearts and debris –
mending the desirable
with promises of rays
galore; valiant in her efforts
of debauchery and possibilities.
She was fair and sparkling in sin,
creating charcoal as she danced;
silent brush strokes echoing
into the sobering night.
Her depravity was evaporating –
burning innocence and melting
cinders of truth in profanities
of saint-like resorts.
It was four hours past midnight;
the streets were empty
with light posts barely
creating shadows dancing
with the wind or singing
melancholy desire.
She was decadent at her best –
yellowed and glowing.
Still loved – still loved
and wholeheartedly.