Tangled strands
In grey matter
I thought it was you,
Them

Deeply embedded
Eternal threading through
No matter how many cuts
I made

“This is just part of me, I guess”
I said at last
Half-believing, hands shining
Patient and surgeon

But it wasn’t you. Or them. Not really.

Tangled strands
Memories made patterns
Which imprinted in grey matter,
Stuck

But these strands
Handled with care
Unravel and turn to wisps
Which, floating,
Take their leave,
Leaving untangled remembrance.
Free.

They peek in the window,
Then try the lock,
But they don't really need
My permission

Heaviness of limb
And a room seeped of color.
My brain is my tomb,
Until it's not

I never know
When next they'll return,
Demanding, not asking,
For the keys

I was never one to wonder
About a lover under cover
My heart burst for you and I didn't want another.

We jumped in, head first,
As people like us do
My heart beat for you.

I thought you knew.

Sitting where we stood,
There was no crackle in the air.
The colors were dull,
The room diminished, flat.
Or maybe that was just me.

The smiles seemed muted, in my half-spectral state, but to be fair, how can one trust what's only half seen?

Hands,
Brown, slender, strong
Are not the ones that caress me

Hair,
Dark, curly, boyish
Is not the kind I smooth

Eyes,
Deep, earnest, yearning
Are not the ones I wake to

One half the sentiment is there
But the dreams--
Vivid, honest, longing--
Are not what greet me with the day

What on earth do I do with that?

Here we are, another bend in the road
But don't worry about turning it.
For if you look back,
If you try to catch a glimpse,
It's there with a little twinkle in its eye
And a mischievous grin,
Waving goodbye and waving you forward,
Bouncing around the echo chamber.
Your hand is held.
It's an old friend now,
Didn't you know?

Longing, I am always longing
Reaching back and reaching forward,
from paths I've already tread to those
still whispering in my mind,
I clutch each to my breast-
steeped in nostalgia, wreathed in magic-
thrilling until I should die from the ache

Longing for stories and other worlds
To sip of the potion
To pull humming, throbbing reality
from shimmering mind
To build and then climb
Longing for what was and what could be

I remember the crisp November leaves
by the side of the road
The voice of a bygone friend after
so much time
The glimpse of a dream, still living
Each memory and vision piercing deep

Longing, longing, thrilling
But why?