The spirit is a real thing,
No matter how badly we'd like to convince ourselves this is our only stop in the universe,
Or we are a fragment of some wild imagination.

And maybe we can't touch everyone,
And not everyone we've smiled at in our lives will remember us in the long run,
But our essence and energy will linger around those who got to love us,
And the places we bought our after work drinks and early morning coffees,
Keep them comfortable,
And give them reminders of who we once were,
The presence we offered,
Soft or strong,
Something still tangible even after we've found our way into the dark.

We were up in the air,
Or it was love,
Maybe the heat rising as the night set into place.

In the parking lot that glowed with the moon reflecting on the cars,
He brushed the hair from my face with the tips of his fingers,
And cradled my head in his lap,
While Bright Eyes serenaded the night,
Kissing my tired eyes in the middle of all the songs.

I felt specks of lust in my heart,
But more of a sense of adoration,
Affection,
Which is rare for me,
The girl of stone.

I stopped thinking for a good three minutes about how I couldn't offer myself or even a part without the constant anxiety of possible loss,
How the words he would write in the morning love notes weren't always grammatically correct,
How earlier he grabbed my hand without knowing it held a coffee and led it to spill on my sleeve.

He buried small pecks in my hair,
Taking breaths of the floral scent still present from yesterday's washing.

I sat there in the humming of the car radio with a rapid heart beat,
And soon, a feeling of guilt.

"I don't deserve someone who is this good to me."
And while I couldn't think of the reasons why,
The statement stuck in my head,
Forcing me to sit up and stare out the midnight window as if I was expecting a familiar face to show on the other side.

Abruptly leaving was my only option before eating myself alive.
I drove the whole way home missing the eighteen goodnight kisses I ran away from,
And the brightly lit possibilities that hung from the stars.
All because I didn't think I deserved them.
But I did. And I do.

Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.

I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

Half alive,
Fireside,
Overdosed,
I survived.

Drowned in beer,
In the clear,
Pills in my head,
Can't steer.

Summer night,
Candlelight,
Heavenly hell,
Burning bright.

Riddled thought,
Can't get caught
Smelling of sweat,
Waiting to rot.

Slow suicide
On the porches of the houses on the hills.
In the cobblestoned sidewalks in the centre of everything,
The car frame almost melting in the mid day sun.  

The faces always look so sad,
And sometimes angry with me,
When I leave the coffee, barely touched behind,
And walk with my hands locked, leaving with someone I don't know.

Slow suicide
In the bathroom of a childhood friend,
In a painted cotton shirt.
Taking it off with the camera on me,
Held him captive in my body.

The faces look so pleased,
So in love with the moment, but not me.
When my thoughts turn demonic and ***** out the things I never thought I could say,
But there I went saying them.

Slow suicide
On the highway going 110,
In the radio, in the songs that sing me nearly to sleep.
The lights keep flashing but they don't bother me.

The faces don't show at all,
Except for the masked strangers in my head,
When I think away from the mess I've made in front of myself,
And try to disguise my impurities,
My strange fetish for fear,
But I try not to let it get cleaned up.

It was May and I was drunk,
The rain pouring heavily from the heavens,
And the birthday balloons that once hung around the tent were now all gone,
The early morning hours setting in.

I sat under the porch light for a few moments letting a man I had only met a few hours before light my cigarette and tell me about religion until I drifted into a lawn chair and let the skies drench me.

He was saying something about me looking like Lana Del Rey,
And finding his way out of a five year prison sentence,
How we can be both good and bad at the same time, but urge to be bad is sometimes hard to control.

And he was right, so I listened.


"You should come back over here, you're going to get sick sitting out there that soaking wet."
"Am I really that wet?"

I didn't even notice.

He grabbed my hands and held them tightly for a few moments before kissing my mouth.
Still holding me tightly, he swung us back into the rain,
Dancing slow and soft,
Like I imagined at a 1950's prom.

To the rain on the wood porch,
To the rhythm of soft shared breaths.

But dancing turns into desire,
No matter how sweet it is.
I was ****** against the side of the house and kissed deeply,
And I was happy.

He took off his shirt,
Which was followed by mine,
And broke my favorite bra in a fit of passion,
Until we were both naked in the rain,
Laughing.

He took moments to tell me how beautiful I was,
How intelligently I spoke,
How rare I was,

All while the others slept.

I think I fell in love with that one a little bit.

I'm trying to make art but I'm numb.
Lost the flow somewhere along the lines of wine and soft talks among friends
Where I already expressed most things of importance
And took no time to tend to the papers in front of me.
It's okay though.

I don't think I could ever speak so much I would never have a reason to write,
Bits of conversation just get lost in the air sometimes,
making it hard to form the sentences or sonnets.
But I'm so guarded in the places I never wanted to be,
I have too many things I could never tell through my teeth,
And that's when I find myself here,
A tad bit drunk and with canceled plans,
It's okay though.