missing you

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.

Insight Eight.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

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.

Goodbye.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

The words so fearlessly hung
from her lips, yet she refused
to speak them in the darkest
hours of untold truth – instead
struggling to gather strength to
mumble echoes from her heart
that would cause cracks in my
own unsteady foundation. She
was aware of very little beyond
the coming farewell, but she
spoke with a certainty of it in
her heart and it showed on the
delicate lips that I used to be
allowed to kiss with my own
certainty goodnight, yet now
had to casually watch tremble
as she tried repeatedly to say
the words that went beyond a
promise. Those words fearless,
yet the actions were fading in
moments as I turned to kiss her
lips one last time in memory.

LV Letters – Seven.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

You are the subtle laughter
that fills a promise with hope;
a voyage amongst the stars in
the darkest hours of the night
with the late whistling tunes
of an autumn evening breeze.
You are the dream and desire,
parading around my thoughts
in metaphors set to sonnets –
half past lasting perfection in
rhythms of blues kissed by
last year’s jazz. You are my
love, as pure as the falling of
the first snow, coming home.

Forty-Four

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Without the delicate light
of the moon to guide me
into my days, I am left in
uncertainty, craving the
subtle reflection of stars,
that are like kisses left in
sonnets and in rhythms of
blues; left to fear the sun
like a second burden to my
day, knowing the hours to
be a reminder of how the
moon vanished past the
horizon, refusing to rise,
and I am left in darkness.

All of Me.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

She is the softest of songs
set to jazz, where even the
wisps of her silence send
my heart crooning, and I 
can only succumb to the
melodies of her eyelashes
fluttering past the tunes in
transition – she is my muse,
decorating my dreams set
to tunes of a trumpet and
her sax, in the company of
love, despite her absence.
She has left, to places just
outside of my reach, but
wherever she travels, she
takes all of me with her.

Embrace.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Pull me tighter into your embrace –
I feel the warmth of your arms slowly
receding like the waves who gently
kiss the beach goodnight. I crave the
light brush of your fingertips burning
future memories into my chilled skin.
Wrap me inside your words echoing
off your steady heartbeat of promises,
dreams, and everything in-between.
Allow me to nestle my head in the
curve of your neck, knowing your
scent to be of home, where my light
breaths tickle and you lovingly sigh.
Pull me tighter, and never let me go.

Intervals.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

should I wait for you
in the days when the
birds first learn to sing,
where the wildflowers
are sprouting up in the
rhythms of jazz; or on
the eve of the first snow,
where the winds whistle
tunes echoing the moon?
shall I continue to wait
until the very last of my
breaths are whispering
your name, hollowed in
promises and patience,
left to break with the
falling of my final sun?
even then, will you still
remember me – left to
wait in longing for an
end, we’ll never have?

Even Numbered Dreams.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I have always fallen for the
evened numbered things in
life – counting stars in pairs
to the heavens and believing
in possibilities set in rhythms
of jazz serenading the moon,
closing my eyes with every
third lightning strike as if I
could avoid the rarity of odd
numbers as though there was
a burden or a curse that comes
in singularity; so perhaps, my
darling, I was meant to love
you, for a second time in life?

Promises in Transition.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Set against the backdrop
of auburn and gold, rising
in the earliest hours of the
day when the world is still
full of promise, and reality
hasn’t yet tampered with
our dreams – where I can
still wake with the desire
of you in my mind, even
if I can’t reach out to you –
where I can still rise with
a smile, cast against the
glow of a sunrise set in
mid October, filled with its
own promise of a change
still desirable, yet to come.