I never follow my
desire and it costs
me a heartbeat,
every day of my life.
No action, no tears,
just a raw lack of
an all consuming
lifestyle brought
down with a break
in my day, when
my lungs contract
without a blood
flow transcending
into my soul; I am
delirious with a
desire that I can
no longer follow,
and I am not whole.
Remember how we used to
make fun of those lovers
bidding on their happily
ever after only two weeks
in? We’d laugh and gawk,
swearing that compassion
grew only with time and
understanding, and no one
else would ever compare
to what we had anyway.
But look at you now…
bidding your heart away
on another, two seconds in,
with only a lifetime of
happiness up for stake.
It was the back and forth
calling at the docks, with
tides turning into waves,
splashing for attention
but still going unanswered
as you heard the creak of
wood, and still chose to
stand with your back turned,
one eye on the sky – even
the ocean couldn’t bring
you home; it was just our
chatter of promises, left
rummaging in the waters,
pleading with the dock for
an ounce of breath or a
guided light back safely.
The last time we spoke I was
too caught up in your words
to even get lost in your eyes;
eyelashes fluttering in time
to the ever rising heartbeats.
I missed the glance, except I
heard you this time – I heard
you say you’re out, but it
can’t stop my memories from
reaching out to love you so.
Others called her by a three
letter name, I only ever knew
her as love personified – as
my muse dancing on the moon
between laughs of whiskey and
unreported jazz, sweet in a
rain of temptation yet sour
in a defeat of whispers and in
an attempt at people pleasing.
Still missing from my arms,
it was hard to let her go –
watching as she danced down
the aisles with two songs in
her heart, but only listening
to the one I couldn’t sing.
I still call out to her, but
she’s no longer listening to
my words, my cries in the night;
even as three in the morning
approaches and I’m lying in
bed with one ear on the phone
because I’m certain she’ll call.
No, I’m lost in the night sky,
trying to come up with some
other name to call her – but
nothing else can replace love.
Its been three hundred
and eighty days since I
first said those beautiful
words to you, frightened
as ever as I held you in my
arms; the sun was setting,
casting golden shadows
across our bed, and I kept
asking you to tell me a
story, just one more tale
to prolong the afternoon,
for I knew once you took my
heart, I’d never get it back.
And just look at us now
darling – it’s still yours,
just tell me a story.
I once called her name,
barely breaking a whisper,
trying to prove to myself
that I still could, even
though she had gone astray;
with me still looking for
her in the colors of my
pens, the spaces between my
words, and in the lines of
the journal that she had
insisted matched the
creativity that we were
creating. Together.
She was my second muse
having come and gone,
dried up with the blue ink
stains and coffee grounds
scattered across the page –
I can only hope she’s
traveling as well,
finding whatever it is
that she’s looking for.
I couldn’t describe your absence
between the vowels in silence –
a sharpened dusting of gray
rooted in the crevices of the
carpet to the popcorned ceiling,
screaming out memories of images
faded and burned at the corners,
dancing down the halls at a
quarter past two, most nights –
breaking vases and picture frames,
leaving shards of glass on the
floor to shine and gleam from
the light of tomorrow that
seems to never want to return.
But just as I’m befriending the
darkness, the sun rises again
taunting me with wordless sing
alongs about times months before,
begging and baiting me to join –
illuminating the apartment with
paintings on the walls of what
could have been, and what will
no longer be – and I scream.
The silence may be broken, but
your absence is still teasing me
between the vowels of moving on.
I went back to that pond in the park –
the platform of trees off to the South,
half a mile or so beyond the road
with the same family of geese circling
around the island, demanding to be heard.
There’s a little girl again, throwing
bread into the water, and screams of joy
into the air; such sweet innocent youth.
The mosquitoes are worse this time of year,
the grass growing taller here and there,
but dead to sun spots everywhere else.
We should have brought wine with us
last time – it’s refreshing in-between
the breezes that seem to rarely say hello.
I sat on the embankment to the North,
legs stretched out, close enough to hop
into the pond with only a tight jump.
We spoke of Colorado when we were here
last – planning out the next year
of the rest of our lives, beginning
with bon fires and whiskey this summer.
It’s not as warm here anymore, or
perhaps that’s just your absence.
The crickets are still chanting –
whether melancholy or desire, I’m
not aware, but it’s lovely all the same.
The sun is behind me, casting diamonds
in the ripples, pretending to be more
than just a little pond in the park –
things are always trying to appear
to be grander than what they are, and I
suppose that’s my own problem reflecting
itself at the bottom of a bottle of wine,
and too much exposure with the sun.
There’s a small frog croaking about
three and a half feet to the right of me –
if only you had seen him last time,
you could have befriended him, and saved
him from the ultimate fate that took
everything else away from here – if only.
I had gone to that pond again last weekend,
and I had seen that frog you were so eager
to catch, hopping about like life was grand.
I thought maybe you’d like to know.
with a laugh of innocence and gold,
sparkling sonnets and champagne –
I had never known true Gatsby sadness
until my Daisy had gone away,
leaving docks of green & broken pearls
with only pining left of my name.
Storylines in Verse 