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.
Let the summer burn,
engulfed in the heated
days of second chance
and recovery; leave the
fallen ashes at my feet,
where I can stomp them
from memory into the
shaken ground and bury
them beneath my heart,
allow me to look in your
eyes, gently mapping out
the future as though there
were still constellations
left to name, and let the
smoke that still rises from
our fallen past, part with
the turning tides of the
wind, whispering leftover
promises with every flick
of the flame – still burning.
I woke to your words
from the night before,
painting the skyline in
hues of promises and
subtle dreams recanted,
where the truths were
ripe and the future still
seemed promising, as
your words turned into
shades of golden haze
with a gentle serenade
from the rising sun, as
I watched the truths I
had once known bleed
into shadows of the day
as yet another unknown.
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.
Lie to me by the moonlight,
lay me covered in the stars
with fragments of the truth
holding me tightly, bound
to the skyline in memories
of constellations, as though
history will repeat itself and
the truth will become good
again – instead of speckles
of rust not gold, tainting a
clear sky; tainting a perfect
memory, with a broken lie.
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.
Where the edges
are burning inward
and the smoke still
rises at dawn, where
the scattered ashes
lay entangled across
memories, left to
desolation in the
wrong – there is a
sadness among the
trails where the
butterflies used to
be, where death has
become the neighbor,
opening doors with
sighs against the
smoke, in order to
finally be free.
Storylines in Verse 