Midnight breakfast

Heartache’s luxury breathes where lights burn
the thick smell of pancakes and fresh blueberries
passion wakes but all was lost ere it started
words falter in the debate of will or won’t

A mad dash for someone to hold
and lost amidst the jasmine
soft smells of resin and yellow pollen
unable to speak.

Turbulent heart

Your song seeps in, moving through my blood, wrapping itself around my heart.

This rhythm holds me to brighter smiles and upturned eyes, grace written in the moue of lips and tone made madness of love, though burning set fire to coils and snap, synapse lapse,

break bread in dreaming but no salt to be had, the wants of memory and a spent shell casing pinging against concrete steps, finality in the cymbal crash, in the sodden thump and cascade, never more,

but the ravens merely hungry and doesn’t want discussion,

drape the sanity like gauze, easily ripped away when it’s purpose conflicts with the grey light of dawn and the question on your lips.

Cast me out but let me fly, though I perch outside your door or bake me in and I mistake the warmth for the sun, flick ash and sand and watch world’s turn but only this once

Say that you are mine and wake me, a dreamer trapped in the dreaming, last relevant elevator pitch meeting,

let passion claim madness, let hope claim strength, let peace weep pain or merely love me, as I love you

The price of memory

There is a thing in movies and TV shows and in books where despite everything that the protagonist does, every action taken. Despite it all, the person they love is killed or dies. And it destroys me each time. It rips my chest open and for a minute it’s like the door is opening again and I see her, laying there, dying all over again. Every time.

No matter how much time passes, there are things that will trigger me back.

I’m torn between wishing I don’t experience that again and never wanting to get to the point where I feel nothing.

Because if I feel nothing, I will have lost that last piece of her.

But I also don’t want the person I love now to get the impression that I somehow love them them less. I love madly, deeply, completely. And I love you.

Languid knowledge

lips are as wine
intoxicating and infinitely varied
savored and drunk
pressed deep
look into eyes and taste every bit
touch played out as symphony in flesh
fingers flow the course of nerve endings
pulling close
body molded to mine
seeking to build and discover
uncover and expose
the blossom flush of dew
bound and binding
in pleasures remembering

Writing poetry

I have not been writing much poetry lately. Basically because my poetry tends to come from a place of darkness and loss. And lately, I’ve been happy. I unboxed my memories of the night that My Morgan died and replayed through the events of that night. I came to the realization that I did everything I could. Took every measure possible. The weight I had been holding onto for 10+ years shifted to acceptance. This burden I had been placing, that I was the cause, that I was at fault fell away. There was a responsible party and it was not me.  Then I met someone interesting, beautiful though I had never seen them. We’ll see where that leads, but like I always say, Only forward.  This is good. These are good things. But it makes it hard to write my brooding poetry.  I’ll need to find another way to operate.