Tag: Love

I can run back
your grief, to those letters,
disowning your
needless trials,
empty as all air
you rush,

from your panting lips
straight into me.

You left, your words
like seeds from a grave,
rebirthing a forest
from shade.

To stretch,
even without roots,
to want for meaning
to take place –
for anything would be better
than coldness, while truth
had remained clogged
in your earth,
your bewildering mind,

your eyes, when they
need petals to be
undressed, like bandages.

Though, the venom remains
to reconfirm you
in words, cursed to hollowness,
exiting either from throat
or the tallest trunk
of any sickened tree.

I found out
that words are only markers,
or barricades,
to stall us
on this path to imperfect shelter.
We bring our lights forward,
burning in this rush,

of our faiths, tested at each step,
leaving this ground tremoring.

Our hands, held for needed moments,
to signal a disposition,
to feel this lingering side effect
to a life that only stopped
for the other,

with pauses only at reminders,
at photographs hanging in hallways
of our minds, of our journey
to reprimand any understanding
of previous loneliness.

I came to believe
that heartaches were wanderers,
that teardrops were storms
meant to scatter.

I’ve found
that you’ve come here
to remind me.

You’ve come
with bitterness
to your bite,
with soundlessness
to your heart,

while with a mute pair of lips,
you’ll want for everything
that heartbeats had skipped.

You’ll face that fire,
bringing your veins to a boil,
hearing what little
another offering of words
had promised for you,

while under my wings,
you’ll burn, you’ll crave
to forget what you ignore,

while we are wandering through
with heartache to every smile,

with suns setting,
all the while.

To be buried, safely in your scars,
while coming up, to see
another’s fate that will be believed
as an emptiness, to be achieved.

Come to blame?
Those cracks, both of
a heart, of a mirror,
breathing smoke
over a broken reflection,

as you might be
what you say you might be,

or you might be
the same as those cracks,
repairable as the next
broken faith.

I brought you here,
to a place where
all of your scars can be seen
from an uncovered spot,
where shadows cannot
seal your worth.

Love has correction,
while life holds eyesores
in its unbecoming sanity.

You are seeing clearly
the woman of your sadness.
But you do not wish to see
the light that’s behind,

for will it create another shadow,
or will you turn around?

I can confirm
there is an estrangement,
there has been
a taxing embellishment,
while there was always
a long-lasting sustenance
that has become
an overwhelming starvation,

as we were born
for beauty’s sake,
though never receiving
Heaven’s answers.

Escaping to Hell,
if only to find shadows
to conceal us.
Our light,
under an undoing disguise
were this world’s drumming sound,
bringing healing all around,

while now we lose breath.

Helpless, under our eyes,
where storms leak
onto hollow earth.

We fell for vacancy,
for a place where hearts
could be settled,
could be found,
though were buried,
and remained
unheard of,

losing their beats, over time,
though stayed for hope,
dancing for the same crime.

Make your stand
high above the delicate rush,
the evening push
to be carved in sands,
painted, stroked
in asymmetrical disaster.

Waves came in, faster,
drawing your head to a sea,
to see what could not
be believed.

You’ll crush what remains
as always itself, ample.
It eluded arms, that swing
their embrace, around
empty air.

At first, hearing a cry
in a shell, outside your own.
At last, you’ve realized
you’ve crawled out,
on your own,

nevertheless. Go, to find nothing
as alike, as what we had left
in our flooded ruins –
the warmest shelter,

floating on clouds, like feathers.

Throughout lightness, in light of what
we used to be, down to where
you came, to believe
was only another place
to play make-believe.

For, in love, we kissed illusions,
with mirrors all around.

In truth, to blame us
will be to name us
as only another one of us,
another one of those
who made it,

who did not make it?

We carried our hearts, forward,
like arrows from their quivers.

If one was golden,
while all others were black,
there were those hidden silvers
that were tears, from a moon
raining its grief
upon our shelter, full of holes,

full of everything we stole.

Another breath,
full of smoke. Full, with remedies,
reigniting certainties,
realizing fatalities, upon that
inborn rush, running with clogged veins,
fleeing with uncontrolled fire,
returning with unresolved desire,
leaving after going through,
without you.

I wake up, surrounded by walls,
hung with unfamiliar portraits.
I stand up, embracing a ghost,
hearing heartbeats bounce from corner
to darkened corner, with fevers erupting
in spaces where prayers went,
came back, unanswered.

Another death,
full, with stinging eyes. Emptied,
with uncured maladies. Reminiscing
over tragic calamities.

Closure was always
a degree, too high, while I
was always too low
to keep a smile held up,

while I went blind to sunrise.

Sunsets were to remind
a blank mind, of pages, folded
for this curse of remembrance,
this rusted token
of unkind sincerity.

Stirring within
all our contemplations,
dreaming of nights, when
fascinations can blur
themselves, within faces
having vanished
of their remorse.

To all those
worsened feelings,
we hold onto teardrops
like we’ve ever been held
in arms – like oars
paddling us back,
in a drowning embrace,

reliving a misguided tension,
finding pain a relief
from a helpless pair of wings,
flying without direction
in those cloudless skies,

for happiness is no different
inside or outside
a scarlet, familiar wound.

Burned, like among your lips,
where a feeling or two
can be settled. At peace,
torn apart in your domain,
though removed from a light
I cannot bother to say
is better for a prayer.

Relived, among tears,
revived in your presence.

Caretaking a wound,
only possible when I am skipping
heartbeats, instead of stones
I would be missing –
if on a path, needless to explore
when all that exists
are open doors,
unwelcoming exits.

Who made it so
clouds were shaped to be
curtains, covering us
with showers of repression?

We are painted black
with ink, of our grief,
writing letters to a smothered Heaven,
weeping for something beneath,
caught between our feet,
given desire between our knees.

A display
of completeness, of hollowness,
for what is left
in this drift? Here are used up
expressions, from faces,
of those that were
meant to stay.

While we were
coming back, to speak
of honesty,
of deliberation, there were
still, those breaths, these winds
we chose instead to offer
a disused, misused
contemptible attention,

facing our eyes downstream
to hear our heartbeats.

Beneath rapids, within the undertow,
currents have removed our breaths,
like children, separated
from their lungs.

With a repeated reflection
shattered, in mirrors,
life being separate from those clouds,
we find ways to gather, again,

rebuilding another shroud
to keep us blaming fog,
to keep us blaming mirrors.

Carrying this. What is it,
but a gesture I have made, before?
I have left you a trail,
sent over a lightless shoulder,
like a tumbleweed,
carried by heated winds.

As you cling
onto a rock, onto
something that keeps you
always guessing.

It rewrites you,
over again, as remakes
of your broken soul.

It rapes you. Rewiring you,
in tethered reconnection,
in sinful resurrection.

Attached. Like a leech,
though I pull you, only by
your bare neck, accompanying you
in such scarlet pain, while barely
crying in this effort,

as I see you, looking back
to that fog.

Back, to all that
has splintered you, at your
wooden frame, as your
canvas bleeds, at your feet,

in all solid colors.

Whose face are you making?
What side are you taking
when clouds will get darker,
when your fascination
will only grow stronger?

Born. I had come,
bringing tears, into your
steady arms. I have answered
your prayers, under dim skies,
though you always
wondered why.

You always gave into
doubt, with never a truth
to be covered, when it ever
had been spat inside
your open mouth.

There, with open arms,
with nothing more for yourself
to see, as a place full of harm,
because you have gone
with sickness, for the sun.

You have found your own,
of children who are new
to your drear, to you,
my dear. You have found
other answers, at the end
of one glistening rope,

though hoping
that it will continue
at more rewards, at when
you approach a door
to see something more in store,

while nothing changes
in your heart that has
crippled itself.

Unborn. Now, sheltered
under this same earth
the both of us had tumbled over,
had slid upon, clumsy in our
disbelieved hours.

I keep open
books – ones that have
your eyes, your face,
a mouth that tries to speak
as it fails to breathe,

streaming crimson across a skyline,
burying light inside a heart
that falls, naked, inside crisscrossed arms.

When you limp forward,
I leave a heartbeat backwards,
stilling you, for a moment,
to believe the everything of me,
in your struggle to release.

With one life, brought against
time’s solid bones. You are
everything, to behold,
dying to live,

as I am living,
until your death.

More than a burning house,
more than heartstrings
will glimmer, when winter
heats itself up, at summer’s
hidden majesty –
when I plant a seed
for the simplest ceremony
covering love with greater love,
growing a garden of you,

with your voice among winds,
your eyes, your face
arising from all colors.