i have visions of you sleeping well
in a dim-lit room, half-furnished house
these visions once told me you were alone, and cold
and this house... it wasn't a home

i had visions of you dreaming of me
longing for the few days, in which you return to me
sleeping on a mattress is never of ease
but not so bad when you have loving to look forward to

now here in my sleepless cavern those visions have changed
i still see you dreaming in sweet peace
but with another's arms wrapped around you
and this house is more furnished than i had thought

i no longer have visions of you coming home
with a smile on your face, and sweet treats in your hands
heart shaped budds and the sweetest finger hash
are no longer gifts, but regular occurrences

not since you told me, the way you think of me has changed
it's no longer good thoughts about our psychedelic whirlwind of a journey
but of the times we went awry

i'll never know what happened for those 3 days after we spent the night
i hope your phone died and wish that was the whole story
but these visions of you sleeping in a more-furnished house

make me think that house is now more of a home.

Aglow you lie
in fullest splendour,
a rare blossom,
the truest gift given
& indulgent me,
my rosy cheeks covered
by your sheen,
I cry to the heavens,
awash in
your gentle-spirit
& coated with
the purest of clover,
I remain,
forever & ever,
your sweetest lover.

I've taken to carrying a pencil around
Whether I sit or stand
For it seems exceptionally true these days
I can't think without a pencil in hand.

The first  time we met we recollected
many other recollections
of how things would work out
touch and taste, tremble at the thought of knowing
that physical conquests were now possible
and emotional rollercoaster rides real.

But we stayed within the boundaries
waiting breathlessly to clamber
over social boundaries and bask in the sunshine
of our togetherness. It was that calm.

When you left you took a chunk
out of my memory bank
and left back some chewed up bones of discontent
and sheaves of paperless poems
that suddenly looked as hollow
and soulless. Empty caskets.

Now I wonder why you walked away
from three other lovers
in the same way, leaving behind burnt fragments
at each destination.

Author Notes
Everybody moves forward. Some leave a lot of baggage back.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.