I was holding you still
as time catapulted from
underneath our feet, as a
foreshadowing memory
of what we stood to lose;
the details still dangling
by the threads as we are
rocketed forward, arms
stretched out, grabbing as
many loose strings as we
could, cherishing our life
as those threads unraveled
in our grasp – we remember
what we have lost, and from
there, all that we have gained.
I will chase you into tomorrow
as midnight falls onto a lonely
hour, where words are falling
like change onto the pavements,
with the whispers of newly cast
resolutions echoing against the
alleyways bound to be lost by
sunrise – I will follow you into
the new year, where memories
are disregarded as unnecessary
change, and change is viewed as
successfully winning the lottery;
it’s the realm of new possibilities
or perhaps just any other day, but
no matter what happens, I’ll still
be by your side, come what may.
My words were harboring
at the deepest end, only to
burst on the surface at the
first sign of light – fighting
a losing battle against time
and the currents, making the
words stubborn, unattainable
at the heart, as I was left to
dwell alone in the shallows,
watching with a half heart
as my words were the only
cause to blame, as I lay back
submerging myself in relief
and guilt, as I lay drowning.
I crave the pain that seeps
from my blood into poetic
trails of blue ink found on
the page, where light and
verse are clouded behind
lines of memories and the
subtle hues of white space
are begging to be branded
with the leftover outcries of
my mind and heart; I crave
the light of pain, when I can
shred through the darkness
in poetic upheaval, emerging
victorious, with pen in hand.
I blocked out words
falling from my lips
in blue ink stains on
the page; where my
imagination was left
to fight back words
attempting to escape,
I sought out freedom
from the truth, all the
while still dreading
the certainty of losing
myself inside broken
verses strewn across
the page, littered in
ramblings and debris
of a story not my own.
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.
So much for words when
only actions hold any truth;
resemblances of the ideas
we can’t form into coherent
thoughts past our lips, instead
focusing on silence and the
act of distance to showcase
feelings – providing time to
play the enemy, and for our
memories to fall apart under
pressure, as though actions
aren’t in fact confrontation,
nestled on the lips of a lie.
We were alternating
writing chapters of our
story; yours were always
longer, while I was rushing
to get to the finish, trying to
figure out how it all ends, and
you were right – I was missing
all of the little things, details on
the page, not stopping to take a
breath with every little change
in verse. You said it was time
for us to rewrite our chapters
separately, and then you left.
I hadn’t any idea on how to
start, except to take a deep
breath, and to try detailing
out every memory that I
was missing out on in
your absence – filling
pages with chapters
of what I hoped
would turn into
a new middle,
not a fantasy
about our
ending.
It was a wave of uncertainty
flooding my thoughts and my
desires past the blue ink stains
littering the page in repetition
to a beat I’d only heard when I
laid my head against your chest;
it was only an idea, catapulted
into reasoning as I placed every
effort into twisting and bending
the contours of the words, losing
their voice as I transformed them
into lyrics of a song, sung only by
the two of us, as it forgot the only
question that it had belonged to.
I used to have a guided path
but my light burned out moons
ago, and I haven’t a match to
spark an idea – so I continue
walking, hoping for help from
the falling stars to hold my hand.
The terrain is rough and battered,
but my feet are worn in, so I take
one step, then one more and just
continue walking, waiting to cross
paths with another – holding onto
the idea, that they’ll have a light
to help me find my way home.
Storylines in Verse 