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.
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.
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.
In the hours faded from
your touch, the thoughts
creep back in, and I am
left to ignore the marks
of burnt skin from the
touch you once lovingly
gave another, even with
my name set in flames
across your heart; I fear
the reprisal and a replay
once more, where time
does not sing and ashes
are left behind to repair
strained memories, as
though even fear cannot
burn away the imprints
of another and where my
touch cannot replace them.
I miss your soft eyelashes
fluttering like the puttering
down of rain, soothing me
into lullabies of jazz and
dreams – where innocence
is sweeping through your
arms like the gentle winds
calling me to play. I miss
the light echo of my name
on your lips like the calling
of birds chanting out stories
with the passing of the rain,
in sonnets and daydreams;
yet with every storm, I still
miss the rainbow, promising
wishes of your final return.
I crave dreams set in stone,
set to rhythms and poetry –
where blue ink smears and
the image of loving you is
still found on every page;
where futures are blended
with memories, and words
are more than a destruction
of promises. I crave desire
like the paper needs the pen
to bleed – masquerading as
the sonnet struck out in ink,
as I had once loved you in a
dream, and never stopped.
I can’t count the ways
in which I miss you, past
the sound of my name on
your lips – a light brush of
a kiss with every syllable,
in a gentle serenade of a
dance built on jazz; with
echoes of desire laced in
the curves of each letter,
as the softest graze of my
memory brushes your lips,
trembling my spirits from
hopeful assent to ashes at
dusk, always missing you.
Storylines in Verse 