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.

Cautious Tranquility

I trace constellations on your skin

With lips that yearn for guidance

Making connections between breaths

With kisses that barely brush

Then linger on soft sweetness.

I hesitate,

Then contemplate the Maker’s design

Lines that intertwine

And intersect our interaction

Setting once parallel figures

On a course of collision.

Colluding shadows of mirth and mire

Muddle our once cacophonous minds

With medleys of satiated cries

Echoing the once silent walls

Within our hearts

Leaving impressions of something more

Than ink or stone can recognize.

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.

My mind is full of cotton

So thick I can barely breathe

So thick I can barely think

So tightly wound I cannot see

So tightly bound I cannot move

Through threads so close

I can almost hear them

Sliding against desires I cannot reach

Sliding against emotions I cannot have

Suffocating expressions I cannot show

Suffocating questions I cannot ask

Stifled in existing, seeing, feeling

Stifled in speaking, asking, thinking

Everything is caught

In the cotton in my mind.

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.

Common Sense

Your love is an empty track

Having a stated destination

But no way to get there.

Your heart is an empty train

A vessel for travel

But no reason to do so.

Your mind is a broken compass

Forever guiding you

With no stable direction.

Your touch is burning

Marking those you grace

While fading into ash.

Your tongue is a stone

Drowning your speech

With weighted promises unkept.

Your sight is clouded

With visions of what was and could be

Crowding out the present from existence.

Your sense of smell is a traitor

Alluring you into bondage

To masters you never thought you’d see again.

Your eyes are the stars

and all is lost in searching their depths

for words etched in paper cups burned

black with ashes, script faded like voices

echoing out of existence and into the

fantastic shades of stormy coalescence,

like rain in a drought ridden heart.

Sometimes my words

Get lodged in my throat

Like crushed glass that carves

Itself a home then scatters itself on

Pavement in puzzles dotted with

Inconsistency and incongruous edges

Dripping in stained intentions

Smudged beyond recognition.

Coughing loudly,

I cover my mouth in shame

And try to hide

From the thoughts etched on your face.