Silence descends heavily in the wake of
your retreating footsteps,
desolate,
cruel in its unrelenting neutrality.
My thoughts are a startled murmuration
of starlings
with desperately flapping wings
resounding mournfully into the middle distance.
They settle delicately on my shoulders,
unable to bear the weight of our
existence.
We were the beginnings
of a dream,
a building crescendo,
the first strokes of a masterpiece
that fate or folly deemed never know
the fulfillment of completion.
A bitter wind sends its piercing cry
through the spaces of my ribcage.
Cold as a January frost.
Tag: Prose
Yearning for Spring and Other Things
I watch you from afar,
drowning my desire
in the secret places
of my garden.
If I could choose to be a single
bloom in yours,
I’d choose not the heady
rose,
nor the proud, resplendent
lily. No,
I would choose to
be the shyly budding
tulip,
for she does not compete
with any other
for the full weight
of the sun’s hopeless infatuation
with her.
Morning Dove
If, when counting colossal breaths,
the symmetry proves
too much, call down to me the
ways you’d like to further vanish.
Take me as a place you’d
travel to, when the swallows
go. All I can know about
you surfaces briefly, as if caught
in some oblivion. Some mornings,
I wake to gentle breath, and think in
soft touches, wonder where your
mind goes each night.
I could keep reaching for certainty
in response to this
grow-old-with-me,
but why land there? Let’s
step out somewhere more
blue-evoking, or bend the
river north. It isn’t
too important to decide
where to build the farm,
or the house with exposed wood;
the ceiling fan turns slowly above me.
I picture linens rippling in gentle
heat. Somewhere far away, a morning
dove perched on the moss fence
sings his holy tune.
Love Me in a Different Language
If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, then please recall the words that once upon a time were softly sung to you,
that were crooned so sweetly at your mothers breast in the land that bore your father and his father before him.
Draw near to me, amor, and we’ll map our bodies with the sounds of passion,
where we’ll learn to love anew in your mother’s tongue, passed down from generation to generation.
Let us ink our hearts in nuances of sun-baked streets and moonlit trysts
in dialects that knew of love and loss long before our stars were lit,
that echo still of golden skin, and raven hair, and lips that taste of briny seas.
If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, let us learn to love again in languages unspeakable.
It is said that one changes personalities to subconsciously reflect the language that is being spoken.
Your Darkest Night
It was black and endless and lined with teeth all over.
Descending like a wet blanket,
every breath you drew was a shudder.
*On a separate note, I’d like to reiterate just how much I dislike textual misunderstandings. Yesterday was the first time I got true hate comments on my blog. What I thought was carefree banter somehow caused the other person to devolve into calling me something vulgar and tell me to burn in hell. The fact that I don’t entertain phone calls from married men may have factored into this whole debacle. Why are we always so apt to screw things up so royally? It’s one thing we can always depend on to do spectacularly.
Scattered — Coffee Flavored Thoughts
Ahh..if my love for traveling and how it makes me feel can be immortalized in verse, this is it ♥️
I left bits and pieces of my heart in all of the places I have been. I close my eyes and find myself in the labyrinth of my mind. There, the sunlight glinting off of the bronze statue as you drive by, your head resting against the coolness of the window. There I am, splashing…
Death by Poetry
The words looked harmless at first, standing there dressed up (or is it down?)
in their elegant despondency. Beckoning
each passer-by with delicate wares made up of images like “palest eyes of Sunday blues” and “languid Friday.” A mere glance was all it took for their siren’s song to be unleashed. Weaving through the air, they danced in slow motion, falling, burrowing through
creases of skin and tears and “have mercy” and wreaked their way through lungs and fingertips and memories tinged in shades of coral. The human heart stood not a chance. Beating out its last, an almost-whisper echoed on the breeze—
Is this exquisite death or
excruciating
bliss?
This poem is an ode to Rachel’s poem, Sunday hues. Read it and fall hysterically in love, get your heart mangled in the process, and walk away a better person for it all.
*Photo from ArtStation by Alexey Popov
Currently Reading: Colder by River Dixon
It’s superb. Go and get it.
Flower Gardens
“Please don’t ask me how I’m doing,
I’m feeling fragile
and need
a little
space.”
That’s okay, I will mind my own garden
today.
But please remember that I’m
just on the other side
of this broken
fence,
And when you’re ready, I will
be there to admire the
flowers growing in
yours.
Ebony and Crows 