If my words mean nothing
then why do you shed light
on them during the hours
following the break of the
moon – filling your thoughts
with serenades and sonnets
of the love that I have for you,
which you aren’t allowing to
grow; bending the edges of
the words into hardened and
misshapen truths as though
honesty is the reality you’re
running from, and I am the
keeper of twice painted lies.
With the whistle of the winds
past the earliest hours of dawn,
where the trees are swaying soft
symphonies outside my window,
calling for my memories to come
out and play, I am strolling gently
through dreams half buried in the
past, lingering twice on shades of
blues with a soft touch of violets
lining the horizon, with collapsed
wishes parading down like rain –
half entranced by the voice of my
muse singing lullabies, I whistle
alongside in hopes of her return.
In a rush of swollen blazes,
spewing ashes of autumn and
charcoal, where the half burnt
breezes are being carried out
as though fragments bare no
harm, and memories are only
as good as the dreams in which
they are kept; with the roots of
flames burning blue in the light
of love and smoke hovering past
realms of suffocation, waiting
for life to distinguish the blazes –
as though indecision was just a
game, with all of us left burning.
It all comes down to patience,
a steady quality I do not have –
where time is only considered
a burden, and the silences are
screaming lies and indecisions
as I attempt to cast myself into
dreams of hope, where the only
truths are painted in sought after
realizations too painful to bare
as my heart is still echoing your
name; the constant fear of never
again and lone tales of distance
spreading out like ashes in the
breeze, where your name falls
like ice from my lips as I am
hesitant to break the silence for
the fear of your answers is the
only thing worse than waiting.
in the latest of the early hours
when the blue ink is bleeding
from my thoughts and dreams,
scribbling through scratches of
memories and words cast in the
idea of gold and longing, it is your
image twice believing in the sigh
forming on your lips after a gentle
kiss, with the echo of rain falling
as though it wasn’t just an ending,
a parting of two hearts still beating
in time to the other but no longer
leaning towards one another, as
though goodbye was just a word
not an action, as I was frantically
trying to recapture all my desires
before that final kiss into words to
keep you here, to bring you back,
as though I ever had a chance.
just take my hand and let us
slow dance in the rain; swirling
between droplets and each other
around one in the morning, when
the night is innocent and quiet,
slowly creeping past insecurities
while warm at the touch of hand.
we’ll dance between the breezes,
making up lyrics as we go to the
tune of taking turns making each
other blush as we twirl and spin,
dipping in time to droplets; just
take my hand and help me fall
in love with the rain once again.
My words are all that I have,
yet even they so strategically
aligned, were not enough to
convey to you the sounds of
my heart that only come from
loving you; they cannot seem
to paint a vivid enough image
of my longing to hold you in
my arms once more, past the
hours of the moon as we curl
against each other, echoing
our heart beats in a rhythmic
pattern of I love you’s, as we
count down our memories of
affection to the letters of the
alphabet, and reciting words
I never dreamed would fail me.
I tried counting memories
at the touch of my fingertips,
two and four, then six – until
I was well past the numerical
representation of loving you,
basking in the gentle light of
the moon that comes with all
memories filled with you and
I; two more, plus four and six,
dancing down the halls of my
place in repetition to echoes
of jazz playing at the steady
rhythm of my heart that only
comes while thinking of us.
With every chill, I still reach
out for the warmth only found
in the middle of your embrace;
wrapping myself in memories
of waking with the rising of the
sun and curling up against you,
kissing the back of your neck
in an attempt to hear your light
giggle and sigh, warming my
heart with every sound, and
leaning further into your touch.
With only your old blanket and
my fallen memories, I am still
cold through the nights, in a
search of warming devotion.
I had spent the last few moons
swirling around shades of blue –
reaching out between the stars
and blending the colors into my
favorite memories on repeat.
I was too focused on creating
the perfect shade of you, that
I never saw the splash of gold
and auburn appearing on the
skyline until long past the sun
rising, bleeding together new
colors for me to paint with; a
pleasant surprise after many
a moons cast in loneliness.
Storylines in Verse 