The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna

The sorrow is yours,
As much as it's mine,
Your heart has rights to its tears,
The same way mine cries.

The treasured moments,
Are tucked,
In the curve of my lips,
Just the way they, sometimes, creep to your cheeks,
And make you blush.

The nostalgia, the sweet pang behind them,
Can be read in your eyes,
Just as obviously as they show in mine.

The sorrow is yours,
As much as it's mine,
Your heart has rights to its tears,
The way mine cries.

Don't bother drawing lines,
We are bound to cross,
My heart is crazy,
Just as bad as yours.

The rumors that transcend,
Like wildfire in dry woods,
My contribution to these stories,
Are as much as yours.

Give words to these memories,
A tune to these words,
The old tune that you'll hum,
Will belong to me, as much as it belongs to you.

My verses,
And your prose,
Tell the same tale,
Of same loss.

This sorrow is yours,
As much as it's mine.

i.

branches of black night
the rain taps on the roof
everything is unguarded
a bird breaking open the sky like
a dark tear.

ii.

our love, rooted to
the earth, scattering
bright oceans
tender as a star.


iii.

dance of love
limbs wild and joyful
lull of a kiss.

iv.

ocean breaking, each wave,
flowing back to its watery song,
flooding and flowing,
flooding and flowing.

There are some things I have wanted to say.
Stories I've wanted to tell

I wanted to tell you how the moon, on that special lunar occasion,
How it is red not because of the blood moon,
Rather because it is the reflection of a thousand sunsets all on one canvas.

Or I could tell you about that old lady I saw on the street the other day

How the wrinkles on her ***** hands matched that on her torn shirt.
How those wrinkles looked like waving rows of wheat to the bread she'll never eat

I could talk about the sunset!
Oh the sunset!
How the last ray of sun light is like that of the love of an old man who watched his wife of fifty years fall from cancer.
How even though his light is gone, he can still see her image refracted on the horizon, as if one last kiss to the world

I could talk about the young girl down the block,
The one who people call "fake" because she covers her face in foundation,
The same face her boyfriend left bruised and swollen.

I can talk about the girl I saw on my walk today.
The one who flinched every time her father raised his hand,
The one that wasn't holding his beer of course.

I could talk about sunsets.
I could talk about the beauty of the moon.
I could talk about a lot of things.

I could talk about poverty
I could talk about abuse or ****
I could talk about a lot of things

Society dictates that I should talk about the good things
I should talk about the sunset, and the butterflies
Oh! The butterflies!

Society is a lot like a butterfly
Its beautiful,
Free,
Alive

But society has heavy problems

Ones that "can't be talked about"

The weight of these problems will rip the wings from a butterfly.
Leaving it to fall to the Earth

Earth, where it will be forgotten
It will be stamped upon
It will be ignored

Until one day it dies
Until it's suddenly a tragedy,

What a pity

I will run the distance, to be in
your arms, to spend a moment
with you running no matter how far.

I sprint to get close to you, the
distance never matters. Its the
journey to be with you that matters,
it's never a beat too far.

I could run one step at a time each
a moment in your heart, always
stepping gently never to bruise
those feeling. Stepping on air to
keep that love there.

I could run backwards but still end
up with you its not the run, which way
it is done. Its the fact I'd run anyway, a
distance is never too far to be with you
in my arms.

She's somewhere far away
sitting on her porch
watching the sun sinking behind the church tower
alone
breathing the warm air
as another day of her life
is going to an end.
80 years and no smile wrinkles on her cheeks
her forehead still a history book
where lines of war and struggle
are deeply written.

Her eyes full of colour,
her heart
a room where hope and sorrow
constantly fight against each other.

Her voice, a joy to hear
though it saddens me
knowing that she goes to sleep as the sun does—
lonely, in a dark, quiet infinity

Light flashes across
the night sky. Even the moon
hides behind the clouds.