I follow her laughter
like the blossoming of
flowers follow beneath
the steadfast fall of rain –
in sprouts and in sonnets
of the late hours of May,
her laugh is like spring;
with a sweetened aroma
filling the season in the
lightest of droplets falling
against lilacs to the tunes
of love and jazz, where
her smile sets as the sun,
guiding me into dreams.
Where the edges
are burning inward
and the smoke still
rises at dawn, where
the scattered ashes
lay entangled across
memories, left to
desolation in the
wrong – there is a
sadness among the
trails where the
butterflies used to
be, where death has
become the neighbor,
opening doors with
sighs against the
smoke, in order to
finally be free.
With the days shifting
into a new year, and the
hours blending laughter
with the light sketches
of a smile set beneath
the glow of the moon,
she is my greatest fear
and wildest of dreams;
where her touch ignites
flames set between the
stars and in the valleys
left of my heart, she is
bordering on madness
built on my desire and
rooted deep in ashes of
the previous year, set to
sprout again, prime and
new, in a year lost to love.
She lives on the outskirts
of dreams, where hope goes
to grow past the daisies and
champagne, where the bitter
trenches of a rainstorm half
past the season barrel in like
a stampede. She loves and lies
half past the imaginary set to
imagery, of dreams she once
grew from the roots of ashes to
set her free; running wild past
the outskirts of resolutions, past
daisy chains and restless nights,
where hope no longer grows like
the Gatsby champagne flows.
In the hours faded from
your touch, the thoughts
creep back in, and I am
left to ignore the marks
of burnt skin from the
touch you once lovingly
gave another, even with
my name set in flames
across your heart; I fear
the reprisal and a replay
once more, where time
does not sing and ashes
are left behind to repair
strained memories, as
though even fear cannot
burn away the imprints
of another and where my
touch cannot replace them.
I crave dreams set in stone,
set to rhythms and poetry –
where blue ink smears and
the image of loving you is
still found on every page;
where futures are blended
with memories, and words
are more than a destruction
of promises. I crave desire
like the paper needs the pen
to bleed – masquerading as
the sonnet struck out in ink,
as I had once loved you in a
dream, and never stopped.
I can’t count the ways
in which I miss you, past
the sound of my name on
your lips – a light brush of
a kiss with every syllable,
in a gentle serenade of a
dance built on jazz; with
echoes of desire laced in
the curves of each letter,
as the softest graze of my
memory brushes your lips,
trembling my spirits from
hopeful assent to ashes at
dusk, always missing you.
I still feared the silence
like the edge of a knife
constantly pointed at my
back, left to breathe in
the syllables of words
counted as half truths
with only hope past the
horizon, guiding me into
open arms and a dagger;
caught between moving
forward and not looking
back, with only the sharp
pressure against my spine
keeping me standing still.
In the trees, where the light
rustle of the branches against
the falling of ice and then snow
are collecting like sonnets sung
in early December, where the
reflections from the streets are
chanting melodies and memories,
where my love for you came in
like a winter wind’s kiss, leaving
a blush on your cheeks – you are
the innocent beauty that comes
back to me with the falling snow,
decorating my thoughts in desires
of repetitions of the season, lightly
blanketing my heart with whistles
of love, rustling against the trees.
With two sways of the ink
I was penning my heart in
verse; a storyline of a love
I wished would have no end.
Blending promises from the
edge of my pen, into nights
of hope, left to carry on with
every new moon. I was the
writer and she was my poem;
carrying love with each new
storyline starting with a sole
concept of beauty beyond
the heart, where every word I
knew, came from loving her.
Storylines in Verse 