Lost in the midst of an
action, surrounded by
shreds of distance, masked
in the frayed remains of
absence – I can still hear
the light fluttering of your
eyelashes in a repetition of
even numbered beats, as
though you were trying to
fly back towards me; if
only for those few seconds
lost in exploited silence,
there’s a sliver of light, and
perhaps that is why an
ounce of hope is both
destruction and discovery.
It was the way the sultry beat
would drop at a moment’s
notice, lingering in the air to
be absorbed by hearts and
minds – breaking the meters
with repetitions and silence;
it was the way you moved
once the songs began, with
an element of grace swiftly
unpracticed, raw, and inviting.
Our love was a lot like jazz,
unpredictable, yet shaken, all
the while smooth at the soul –
I miss the melodies played to
only a trumpet and her sax,
at a beat only lovers can know.
I wear your silence as my
favorite blanket, warming me
as the nights turn to drinking
beers and watching the sun
fall sooner, the leaves changing
faster, all the while building up
wishes to cast on the stars.
You are still my favorite shade
of blue, silence be damned.
You are the comfort in a soft
embrace – the only warmth on
a night drunk on memories.
But your silence is still falling
as I had hoped my wish filled
stars would, and I can do nothing
but wrap myself up, and count
down the hours until the sun rises,
well past my wishes once again.
When I close my eyes
underneath the light of
the moon, it is you that I
dream of; sunlight kisses
over the mountains, crisp
breezes running fingers
through my hair, and sweet
gentle chatter over coffee
on Pearl Street. My heart
aches for your embrace –
hand in hand strolls beneath
the light of the stars, while
counting wishes of whispers
of hope, longing and love.
With every new moon, I
close my eyes, dreaming
of you and I – together
being home, once again.
believing twice in conviction
with a knack for innocence,
she came in like the rain in
summer; hitting hard, lingering
softly. she was still decadence
dropping from the heavens in
echoes, washing away blue
light memories from the moon.
she cleared away all wreckage
in one gentle fall, including me,
without a change in season or
a promise left to break – only an
ounce of hope past the silence
left glaring off the puddles,
which is why I still take to the
window, every time it rains.
I was too busy coddling
our future to notice the
present dwindling to ash,
falling away to memories
of stories we swore would
never become truth; I had
a plan, an escape set in
rhythm to condensation
sought after a whiskey
glass. I just wasn’t quick
enough in execution, and
failed in time to rhythms
of swaying heartbeats,
lighting stories filled of
new promises turned into
memories, with a match.
I woke early to the sun
streaming through the
bedroom in a light haze
of golden promise.
Autumn is approaching,
a change of season, and
an outlet for the breeze
to come billowing in,
sweeping away all the
sun-kissed memories and
debris of the summer –
a lighter affair to the fall
of laughter and reddened
defeat; a crisp outlook
breaking the gaps, painting
hues of hope in harvest.
Just when the sun thought
she would never love again,
the world as she knew it
shifted, rotated, turning
everything right side up,
and she could still see
mountains, valleys and
lakes, and her hidden smile
returned with the memory
of the blush of the clouds –
before, she was only loving
with half her heart on the
world, and finally she could
open herself up, to love again.
I think back on picnics
in the park – your shades
were bouncing reflections
of the sun into my eyes yet
I couldn’t do anything but
smile. I was busy trying to
harmonize my laughs in time
with yours, filling the silences
between the trees bustling
about and the calls of the
birds – eventually we lay still,
curled up into one another
with only the sound of our
hearts beating, thump, thump,
thump… It’s the melody of
the summer, calling us to play.
I’m living three lies
short of a promise with
no helpful home in sight.
My survival reliant on
caffeine, nicotine, lack
of dreams, with no in
between, and I’ve never
been more friendly than
with the mask of night.
I dare not open my mouth
anymore, for I haven’t an
idea on which version of
the truth will come out;
I know only black lies,
white lies, and how to
swallow my pride – none
of which gets you back
on my side, so why try?
Storylines in Verse 