Let the summer burn,
engulfed in the heated
days of second chance
and recovery; leave the
fallen ashes at my feet,
where I can stomp them
from memory into the
shaken ground and bury
them beneath my heart,
allow me to look in your
eyes, gently mapping out
the future as though there
were still constellations
left to name, and let the
smoke that still rises from
our fallen past, part with
the turning tides of the
wind, whispering leftover
promises with every flick
of the flame – still burning.

LV Letters – Nine

I love her like the stars
search for the moon each
night, lighting the sky in
hope of a kiss goodnight,
with just a glimmer and a
chance to see them in the
light; where beauty shines
best behind her eyelashes,
fluttering about sonnets in
rhythms of blues, and I can
count the gleam in her eyes
twice as the stars, against a
backdrop of midnight hues.

The Lonely Hours

With a thousand thoughts
of the unknown, blurred in
shades of ash and charcoal,
running in frantic directions
through my head in between
the coldest hours of four and
six, when the sun was only a
promise and the moon was in
a daze of whispers amongst
the stars, I had lost a trace of
hope that only settles inside
your embrace – I was alone
again, saddened in the truth,
expecting nothing to change.

Reflections in Gray

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.


I had let the beats of my heart
lead my footsteps back to you,
with echoes of jazz in every
sway and a melody of our song
floating in the trees, lost to the
rapid fire of daydreams – with
hope as my guidance, following
chants of your laughter behind
the softest of smiles left for me.
I had only the memory of your
love as I marched on; following
your footsteps back to the days
when jazz was more than just
love, and you and I were more
than just home – where I could
pull you close, and never let go.


I miss your soft eyelashes
fluttering like the puttering
down of rain, soothing me
into lullabies of jazz and
dreams – where innocence
is sweeping through your
arms like the gentle winds
calling me to play. I miss
the light echo of my name
on your lips like the calling
of birds chanting out stories
with the passing of the rain,
in sonnets and daydreams;
yet with every storm, I still
miss the rainbow, promising
wishes of your final return.


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.

First Snow

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.


Within two shades of silence,
I am still wishing the idea of your
name on my lips, whistling away
blushes of memories against my
reflection, hoping for a change of
season to cradle me in their arms
as nights are growing longer, with
the days burning to ashes. I am
battling the silence of my mind
versus the quietness in my heart,
where I cannot fathom a victor, for
neither are leading me back to you.


I’ve spent too many nights
staring at the stars for loose
answers to notice the path I
was wandering; left and then
right, my feet continuing on
while my head was caught in
longings of the future, with a
step in the right or the wrong
direction, no one was capable
of saying, as I ventured on my
own, lonely meandering past
sonnets and lost daydreams,
naming each star as a desire
to be near you as I passed.