letting go

Letting Go, Or Something like that

Posted on by Amber S Morse

For months I was carrying a
gram of hope around my heart,
telling myself that I was
patient enough to wait for you
to realize where your home
truly lay, between comfort and
complexity, growing rustic at
the edges with time and wild
fires blazing up in passion –
but those are not realizations
forming on your lips as we
finally take that dive and
converse back like we used to.
I am kept at a distance, with
two smiles and a half shrug,
for your words are telling me
never again, or ever truly was.
Believe me sweets, this isn’t
the truth that I was hoping
would become our end, but I
have listened to your sonnets
growing out beyond the waters;
I shall drop all hope the
next time that it rains.

Twenty-One.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

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.

New Day.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

The silence has
retreated, creeping
past thunderstorms
and rolling tides,
breaking wind
storms and sonnets,
collapsing into the
hazed waves of
destruction and blue;
beyond the riffs
of water curling
against two words
with a lone promise,
the sun is rising
again, drying out
the absence, and
singing tales of
honey kissed rays.

Insight One.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

In a memory
muted with time,
I cupped my hand
around your cheek,
counting your
eyelashes, making
a wish on every
single one, asking
to be blessed with
just one more day
with you – never
quite realizing
I’d run out of
wishes to count.

Twenty-Four

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I should be listening
to the immense volumes that
your silence is shattering
through my bouts of hope;
I should be able to hear
your voiceless whispers
telling me that we shall
never converse again, yet
I cannot bring myself to
fathom a world where
you and I aren’t able to
do that, where we can’t
move past the absence,
so please just answer me
why – if those are the
only words to fall from
your lips, let them entrap
me in swirls of truth,
dancing around the parade
of lies. I can take it
darling, just whisper them –
I can listen through the
volumes, I can shell out
the hurt, I can. I will.

Every time it rains…

Posted on by Amber S Morse

With nothing left to do
but stare out the window,
I count memories as they come
plummeting down, watching
as they fall and crash
drop by drop, day by day,
creating puddles and hurdles
in their crestfallen wake –
but you can’t see them anymore;
it must be sunny in Florida.

Twenty.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

As the heat began to drop,
the sun looming over the
tops of the treeline,
I was hit with that
unnerving realization
that while I wasn’t
eager, nor exactly
willing – it was time
to let go, and breathe.
Watch the sun fade,
christening the stars
as I focused on the
colors and shades
no longer the whys,
just one last time –
I was ready. It wasn’t
home but I’m sure
that I’ll be missed.

O’Rourke’s

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I had gone to that
old spot Sunday;
walking in, daring
not to sit outside
in good ol’ booth
number two – instead
forcing the patrons
awkward attention as
I grabbed a table of
six, for just myself
and a Guinness.

Smokers outside,
sipping in-between
under cooled beers
and vodka rocks;
corner pockets,
scratches, and arcade
games, the end of the
bar – lone road.

Knowing it wasn’t
the same here
anymore, I ordered
another and toasted
off to the memories,
waiting for you to
come and make your
final appearance.

Thirteen.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I had tried to break the silence –
shattering all mirrors of yesterday,
while singing viciously over the future.
Too lost in stale vodka and sonnets,
that I once sung but now carry her
voice, I presume for you to notice.

I dare say, she sings much grander
than I – but I wonder what she’s saying
in the silence that makes your heart come
alive, like it did with me? Or doesn’t she
tease and evoke; make you quiver in that way?
Only silence, I presume – what a pity.

Sunday’s are the worst…

Posted on by Amber S Morse

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.