At the peak of the hours
when the sun is refusing
to rise, and the clouds are
falling like ash and debris,
when I am hovering along
the outskirts of loneliness
on the edge of denial and
fear, I hear only a whisper
from you gently soothing
my own voice against the
rapid beating of my heart,
bringing me back into your
arms, where I can think in
fear, knowing I won’t fall.,
I once danced
with the moon,
a tango at dusk,
with whiskey on
the horizon and
jazz on repeat –
the stars in awe,
with our hearts
gliding in time
to rhythms past
twilight, waiting
until the sun rises
to finally catch a
breath with the
morning breeze.
Like the soothing sway
of a trumpet and her sax,
where the echoes of love
mix with the tunes of tell
all jazz; our silhouettes
dance to the rhythms of
our hearts singing, eight,
then three, then one – we
dance with jazz on repeat,
as a promise to love again.
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.
I crave the gentle caress
of poetry falling in motion;
the pitter patter of words in
verse, light at the touch of
hand and gracefully let go –
where the rhythm of jazz
and sonnets are falling in
love in lines on parchment,
with ripples crossed out at
the edges, of words lost and
forgotten, and promises are
fading at the creases, with
only blue ink stains as their
witness, lightly caressed in
a repetition of folded paper
and notes of longing in love.
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.
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.
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.
I crave the sight of my words
falling from your lips in poetic
verse and rhyme; with my love
sprouting in whispers and slight
hesitations as you take in every
line, letting my words sink deep
into your skin, allowing me to
touch you beyond a lone promise,
beyond empty words, but instead
through the gentle serenades of
my heart and in light of the moon.
I crave the slightest hesitation of
your voice carrying my words, as
you cradle them close, holding an
ounce of love on your lips as you
let the verses sink into our lives.
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.
Storylines in Verse 