Intimate Isolation

There is such intimacy in closeness,

To hear the sounds of the living,

Each individual breath

Catching at first,

Then settling into a rhythm,

Like a hitch within a storm,

The letting up of rain

Before a second downpour…

The rising and falling of the chest

And the grumbling of soft stomachs,

Like thunder in the distance.

Breathing individual scents

To get a sense of who they are,

What they do,

What they enjoy,

Is such a delight…

Warm honey, mingled with cinnamon.

Lavender,

A hint of jasmine tucked under the sleeve,

And the tracings of vanilla on the spine

Pooling into a collection of memories

And suppositions of where they were

Or could be.

The feel of warmth spreading through your chest,

Touching your fingertips,

Bringing them out of the isolation of each digit

Calculating each stroke and caress

Each pause,

Each mark on skin

Both indelible and yet forgiving…

Quieting the need to awaken,

And accepting the approaching calm

While stifling the flinch that arises

With each seemingly bated breath.

The taste of silence

On lips softer than the harsh reality

That dreams must be awakened from

But not now,

Not yet,

In this moment you can taste fleeting freedom

That latches on as tight as you,

For once…

Candied sweetness and yet,

Something more than temporary fullness,

A lingering weight,

But not a burdensome one

Rather a satiated cry for connections

You once thought were forever lost.

Her voice was a candlelit picnic

on the beach,

Soft as the ocean waves,

Leaving impressions on your heart

Like the sand that you carried

In small dunes

As the sounds of guitar strings fade

With the rising sun.

Placeholder

It sucks to feel like a simple placeholder in someone’s life

A quick drag on a 5 minute break

A trail of ashes and your crumpled shell discarded after use

The lingering scent of tobacco mingled with sweaty regret

Perspiration clinging to their lips as they turn away

With no mark that they ever knew you

Except the slight cough when they hear your name

And the awkward shuffling to stamp out what is left of your light.

Evangelical Fervor

Her heart is a confession box

Full of the whispered sins of others

Regrets mingled with half-hearted promises.

Her legs are marked with scattered stories

In the burns and bitter stains of spilled coffee,

A representation of missed appointments

And unkempt curls drenched with ambiguity.

Apologies lie tangled between her thighs

Like sounds trapped in tree branches

Waiting for the wind to release them.

Her laughter catches in her throat

Like a quickly uttered curse echoing in a chapel

Blemished by horrified stares

And all the while

She feigns offense at her own mind.

Yet, betrayed intentions gloss over her eyes

And speak volumes that neither her lips

Nor ample tongue dare admit.

You Are More

You sing within my bones

And resonate my waking hours

With gentle harmonies of disillusion.

You sap from me my memories

My fear of having a past that mattered

Baggage that marred and deserted

So many before.

Life before you seems a dream

A nightmare I’ve barely awoken from

Shaking,

Sweaty,

Throat hoarse from screaming,

Reaching and grasping for some hold

Some ledge in the retreating landscape.

You are not my savior;

No.

You are not a rope or a ledge

To climb up or hang myself with.

You are not a drink or a drug

To forget with or find some shallow high,

Some tainted sweet taste of escape.

You are none of these things.

You are neither the patterns

Or spontaneity in existence,

Cohabiting a home of flesh and thought

Spiraling in conjunction.

You are not the thoughts that shriek

In swiftly passing days

Or grueling nights.

You are not the worries

That perch outside the windows

Announcing rain with weathered claws

Screeching upon glass.

You are neither the anxious murmurs

That tap on your doors

While slipping hatred underneath

Signed by friends

You know so much better than that,

But begin to doubt anyways.

You are so much more than all of this

And I love you for that,

Because it’s all I really know of you.

And everyday I regret that.

And everyday I wish I knew more.

Musty Melancholy

I reach for sleep

But my thoughts are leaking

Like rain through the rooftop

Cracking and warping the ceiling

Leaving crevices

Where the musty smells of overdue words

And expired wishes rest.

My lungs are coated with unspoken whispers

Cast out in unplanned expectoration

Explorations of expectations

And reason overturned in hasty flight.

Memories drip slowly

And my eyes are coated in blurry visions

As I claw for some shade of comfort

In a scramble for repose,

Yet hazy recollections of tranquility

Are all I chance to find.

Pastel Beauty

She dabbles in colors frequented by flowers

And casts shadows in the morning rain

She paints strips in monochrome blindness

When the spectrum of spring and autumn elude her.

She drowns out the monotony of life

With infusions of company long since dead

Then spends her nights wrestling them

Hoping to bring about change.

She pours herself a shot of reality

To dull the aching need

For something more than midnight whispers

And warmth that departs before dawn.

She waits out what seems like endless days

Counting petals on withered roses

Later cast into waning flames.

We dusted the ashes from our clothes

And above the valley we surveyed

The charred, blackened husks

Of those we called lovers and friends.

The rivers and streams of molten death

Carved uncountable digits into homes

No longer defining location or reference.

Crosswalks familiar are grayed out

Warped beyond recognition

Buried in the landslides of the guiltless.

The tops of trees no longer are above us

But rival bridges with connections

All but lost in time and motion.

Churches and schools lie desolate

With the fading embers of sanctuary

Swallowing hope with gasping breaths.

We dust off the ashes from our clothes

And set off to begin again.

Handle With Care

Sometimes I try to package sadness

With familiar paper and a crinkled bow

To let you know I thought of you.

Sometimes I try to stay your tears

Until you have my shoulder

Or until you collapse into my chest.

I set my words in bubble wrap

Carefully choosing fragile phrases

For an even more delicate heart.

Yet it’s never enough,

Not for the choking breathes

I can hear from the other room

When you don’t think I’m listening.

I try to package sadness in familiarity,

Because I always am.

Her eyes are a placid blue

Untroubled and silent on the surface

Yet alive with life and light

If you call her name

And listen to her soul.

Covers of her favorite songs

Cause ripples underneath her skin

That itch and ache

As she longs for the voices

Familiar to her heart.

She opens up at night;

Her music’s louder

Sharing memories etched in vinyl

And fragments of sounds

That whisper “here I am.”

You’ll find her before sleeping,

But she’ll fade with sunrise

Back into wherever she lives,

In thoughts, worries, preoccupations,

Rules she no longer allows to govern

By time or expectation.

Yet, in the night air she is awake,

Climbing trees and in their branches

Finding support almost none have given

Trust merely borrowed

Sullied in noon day sun.

But there is one,

A reflection of her willow shade

Upon whose chest she lays her head

And in her heart

He lies content.