I gave the night my thoughts of you,
each dream a tracing of the fingers
along those curly threads of blonde
whose daylight brilliance lingered.
I gave each night my hopes anew,
an eager longing for the morning
where words and hearts would mend
the pangs of anxious longing.
And just the same the night gave me
a joy, then loss, in equal measures,
saddened to make peace with real
where illusions proved the better.
It’s got some promise. Maybe in that mythical future where I go back and revise stuff, this one could use the touch-up. Just another random night down memory lane…convincing the self to let put away the toys of youth. Older now, wiser now. That comes with certain costs.
So much hatred in my heart
lashing like a wind-thrown umbrella,
the rain those battered tears
streaming from the sky
as though to cool somehow the hurt;
But we all know all the while,
the broken rage of trampled puddles,
soaked and shivering, rushing home,
that’s not how it works.
Then again, have we found something that could work?
Somewhere just across the pond,
an hour’s sailing past the waves,
a story, ours, abruptly ended
beyond the view of a saddened gaze,
recounting scenes that slowly fade,
with every sunrise bringing light
to dispel wisps of prior days.
And so one sailor now recounts
settled safely on foreign soils,
a body, future, to begin anew
but nightly stared across the pond
in hopes of somehow glimpsing you.
And if you could go back across the pond, would you really want to?
Must this be how a story ends? —
a light switched off, a hug held over,
the words goodbyes not uttered…
And not all nights did sleep revisit,
no longer first or second thought of day,
but through each passing year remains
a minute now and then retraced…
The light turned on and dreams desist,
only to remind of one I miss.
Losses can come sudden and without warning; we must remind ourselves always to cherish those who hold dear.
Not wanting to be found
an archived instagram,
filtered until perfect skin
as to catch a boredom’s gaze,
now turned to interest —
The lost art of acceptance
in undocumented scenes,
its ever-present wrinkles
denied from being seen,
and soundless in the crowd
but longing to be heard.
Ah, the fight to keep ourselves from rolling down that point which was our peak. I am hardly even old, and yet already so occupied with such observations.