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 Apr 2017
Jonathan Witte
Once you’ve gone
what more is there
to say about leaving

or, for that matter,
the impermanence
of measured words.

All I can do is stand
alone in the backyard
and listen to the wind.

A late frost killed
the magnolia buds

and the forsythia
never materialized.

And so I wait for the worms
to begin their earthy work.

I wait for the pink moon
to rise above the rooftops.

I wait for the smell of mock orange
and the blue of a broken robin’s egg.

But most of all
I wait for your
words to bloom,

to tell me, finally,
that spring is here—

that the gardens we tend to
have something more to say.
 Mar 2017
Miranda
I want to learn your secrets;
hear the things you've never told;
reach inside and **** your mind,
burn the things that make you cold.

I wish to know your dreams,
those that keep you awake;
peak inside and try to find
a way to give your worrisome mind a break.

I need to know your sins,
the ones you're ashamed to speak;
hold your hand, comfort them away,
reassure you that they don't make you weak.

I hope to know what haunts you
in the silence of your days,
do you think of me, do you think of her?
What words do you wish you could unsay?

I yearn to know your desires,
fetishes that make you tick;
grasp your heart, feel your skin,
discover the way our bodies click.

I crave to love your soul
in all the ways a person could;
hold your fears, kiss your tears,
adore you the way a lover should.

— The End —