restless

Self-Portrait.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.

Sparks.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

with the cooling final
days of summer, I took
to my match and pen to
ignite my first and only
bonfire of the season;
tearing apart the wooden
foundations of my past
one wall at a time and
ripping out the faded love
letters of my journal to
set aflame. they burnt in
a golden haze past the
hours of the moon, never
to see the daylight again.

Song.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I had been reciting
those verses of hope
in memory for so long
that lighting the starch
edges and setting them
aflame wasn’t enough
to rid my methods of
repeat; I had become
falling ashes in unison,
covering the truths I
wasn’t willing to learn
while still hearing the
constant repetition of
hope from the distance,
bouncing off the echoes
of our leftover debris.

Up.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

Four a.m. comes
roaring through
my dreams, waking
up the sounds and
feeding on the
silence, spouting
promises and lies
on endless repeat
until I can’t
decipher in which
direction the sun
will come up; I
am in a trance on
autopilot, with
my heart in the
heavens, waiting
for my clearance
to come down.

Twenty-Nine.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

if I had a dream to risk
to come true, I’d spend
my night dancing under
the moonlight with you,
two hours past midnight
holding each other close,
we’d be laughing until the
morning light rose, reliving
our first date with twenty
questions and promises
foretold, foregoing the
dancing for blankets in
the cold, we’d have just
one night to allow our
imaginations to roam,
before separately we
each ventured home.

Tango.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

with a push to the winds
you are pushing back,
fighting for the control
I never once let you have;
becoming a master in a
game built for two, being
played by us three, and
I am at a loss as to what
the rules are anymore.
all I am capable of doing
is to keep pushing, hoping
that you’ll continue to push
back, and to fear the day
when you no longer do.

Insight Three.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

how will you decipher when
my words have shifted from
you to another? will you notice
when I stop mentioning your
eyelashes and how free they
make your spirit, or the rosy
tint of your cheeks as you
laugh to the heavens while
sipping on Jameson rocks?
I suppose it shouldn’t matter;
if you can continue seeing
yourself in my words, then at
least you still see yourself in
my heart, thinking of us too.

Twenty-Seven.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I struck a match to call
in a favor, watching and
waiting as the smoke
billowed from the tips of
my fingers, heightening
in ashes and the cherry –
patience was never my
friend, as I longed for
time to escape me in
silence as I struck one
more match, hoping for
my luck to finally change.

Friday.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

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.

Twenty-Two.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

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.