In a brush of silence
painted on your sleeve,
fraying at the seems
with a hem of honesty
mixed with tainted chaos –
It is my favorite blend
of colors, discreetly
and artistically crafted
in your scent from
ages drawn with the
curtains, only coming
through with the days
past early September.
I am eager for the shade
to return, wrapping
myself in warmth and
boundaries, bidding the
sun to retreat and for
my days to feel like
home, once again.
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.
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.
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.
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.
On the bare walls
of our old apartment,
memories are playing
like reels on repeat,
showcasing dances of
first every things
overlapping with what
would become our lasts;
cries are no longer
the sound of the room,
instead replaced with
our song, that I can’t
bring myself to listen
to, playing on mute –
pleading with me to
simply ask of you,
if you even struggle
half as much as I do?
The days this summer
are ticking away,
falling frail to new
anniversaries, and
bonfires scattering
about purple and blue
ashes of the past,
tenfold – relying
solely on memories to
carry the weight of what
was once forever,
swept up in embers,
forcibly cast away.
I had never thought,
as a dreamer of morning sun,
that I could miss the moon
hugging me at night so much –
with company in the stars,
shining pathways guided
by hope, glowing laughter
in the silence, warming
edges then my heart.
Every night I glance up,
hoping for the moon to make
an appearance – just one
conversation to kiss the
eyelashes, sparking
sonnets down to me toes.
As I close my eyes and
make a wish, I only sing
for my moon to come home.
What can crush an illusion,
such as hope, but two words
with a lone realization?
It’s a false pretense
baiting the walls with
memories shadowed in deceit;
gone are the visions of a
tomorrow filled with laughter
replaced instead with baited
breath – rapid succession beats
tearing apart the soul from the
core inside, trapping the victor
in a whirlwind of what will
never be, and what never
shall even be dreamed.
It’s admitting failure in
the eyes of wanting to change
what can’t be tamed, what has
not even occurred, with what
we could only paint in fantasies.
An illusion such as hope is
our own downfall – a harboring
destruction in our quake of
reality. It is eminent yet
no longer promising; rising
in our ashes only to spread
its wings and recant our spirits.
So why do we hold on for so long?
It’s here in those moments
when the light is breaking
through the blinds, hands
grabbing for every bit of
carpet to illuminate beyond
the beige fabrications of
when you and I laid there
sweet in slumber and kisses;
when the heat of the summer
hasn’t quite reached us yet,
oblivious in the shadows,
divulging our senses with
sweet lilacs from the
neighbor’s yard – blissfully
sneaking out to pick them in
the mid afternoon and it’s
in these moments that I
cherish that sweet loyalty –
just like the summer winds
will howl, the bushes will
sprout growth, and laughter
will fill the apartment
every time the sun reaches
our toes – you are there.
Storylines in Verse 