Tag: Writing

Identical stains on what
we have contained, we have worn
like burn marks that reveal
twin ordeals. We have been breaking
this bread, our flesh,
listening to heartbeats in the morning,
when the sun comes around –
around the corner,
to see us, the mutual mourners.

There’s enough here, enough near
to be here – living in discomfort,
as it’s enough to know
the number of tracks
were imprinted in the snow,
telling us what we need to grow
when springtime comes,

comes around the next corner,
finding us, winding us
on time in reminding us
that we cannot grieve forever.

We will – in willing our eyes
come to see, beyond what we see,
in the dark.

In the cold, we have been
connected. Under soil for those
who are dead,

we have been breaking bread,
seeking gratitude,

but the warmth never returned
from scarred palms.

From Heaven’s open gates,
there’s an overdue embrace
to go beyond the space
we’ve reentered,

to say was always enough
to relive yesterday.

Highlighted liquid.
Seeing far, closing near
to where these arms had held
what will eventually slip,

but I amuse myself
in deepest recollection.

I remind myself of this,
undressing my eyes in the moonlight.
I realize, whenever there’s a chance,
to see when I contained you
in this grip, before you slipped,

while we cried,
as hundreds of flakes of snow
melted with our breath –
warm, in the bitter air.

No one had known
just how together we were sown.
Blissful, as adorned gifts,
drinking flavors from our eyes,
looking up to gleaming skies.

I would not have known
that you were losing this way.
I would not have grown
this much, in our velvet touch,
present in belonging here,

before the sending of tears
with a different taste.

Bending echoes,
brought out from a lingering
puddle – one that ripples,
in the senseless storms
I keep reaping.

The winds,
the dirges,
the dismal howls
from a throat, that kisses
have long-since abandoned,

but here, you remain.

You speak, from that tainted shore,
where letters, drawn over
thickening lines
were left.

With more time
to be, with whatever
sands have kept,
in these bleeding palms,

held onto like
precious isolation we gave into,
or disposed like
warnings we chose to ignore,
under reddened skies
where wings forever soar.

We began holding oceans
in our eyes, with their
infinite years.

We gated, we sealed
memories in secret cages,
locked like familiar scenes
to hold onto,
from afar.

Let yourself know
that I’ve not dreamed
with an anchor being buried
in the mire,

despite our veins having been
stopped of their flow.

Despite our whims,
we’ve made a home on the rocks
where ships were wounded,
where hearts were lost.

Some will follow
each step of a bloodied stream,
but we turn to the rust,

letting kisses rot,
when we must.

We’ve imprinted our stops,
hearing heartbeats flood
eternal emotions across,
towards spaces
we will not go.

We’ve taken notice
of an observant moon,
bright to its gleam –
as it glances
to our surrounding bloom.

We’ve been overlooking
a time to surrender, to streams,
to a familiar rush,
whenever to be back-to-back
in dirtying wars, inside the tides.

When we’ve crashed,
we’ve faltered, in our ways.
We’ve lasted,
if meaning to present ourselves
as smoke, from fire,
as words, withdrawn like tears,

caught in our lungs,
hung from our eyes.

We lack the control
in letting anything go,
to risk us, for a freedom
with memories,
in tow.

I trespass
on your gardens,
lingering here, observing emptiness
from a vacant pair
of eyes, encased in wonderment.

To let you know.

To let you flow
from this barren setting
to an aftermath,
reunited with color,
retelling your tale
around fire.

To hope, beyond all that,
that you will break free,

beyond all that
keeps you occupied
in your searing mind,
from those that
have settled you into memories
that continue to rewind.

To let you go.

To let you run
to find the setting sun,
to bring it up with a rope,
drinking gold
from a well,
one where love and beauty
forever dwells.

You cannot be
what they will catch,
like a fly for a web,
like a child for a bandage
after falling.

I know this danger.
Loose, endless, and simple
in its message,
though reminding you
of all that never was
in your palms,
like fallen petals.

I realize where the snow falls
on each tress of your hair,
brought back to set up
your eyes, to see the sunrise,
but you’ll be looking back,
soon enough,
not soon enough.

You’ll be drawing curtains
over illumination.
You’ll be bringing yourself back
to those tides,
letting go of the rain
caught in your whirling eyes.

You’ll be remembering
all those figures passing by,
as you’ll be treasuring
the dark, in its depiction,
stamped like a letter
that defeats you, depletes you,

but given to your hands
to remember you,

to remind you,
that you were more
than what you see towards
all closed doors.

While everyone watches,
as others desert,
we are fewest
to see what remains
inside two pairs of broken hands,
sifting through remains
of burned photographs.

Living in each other’s breath,
living for the moment
when we will be buried alive,
mistaken for further death,

though we are eternal
in the pain that keeps eyes open,

aware of our truth
with our noose coming loose.

I know to know
if we will continue to follow
this long road, like outstretched arms,
when clouds begin to gather,
when breath becomes smothered
in distant, grey scenery.

I want to know
how we can keep up
in times we lift the other up,
against flashing thunder,
against what threatens us
with sorrowful rain,

Would we sense glory
on that next kiss,
within the dark,
the rain?