Don't Stop.

Was the gentlest command that ever passed your lips.

My fingers danced across the keys,
Playing to the tempo of your scribbling pen.

We wrote a symphony that day,
Broken to the beat of our passionate hearts.

The arias of my poetry were never enough for you.
You had to hear them played in the form of

Chopin
Bach
Strauss

Anything you could write to.

You know more about me
than any stranger should.
You know more about me
than any friend could.
It's not always easy
to post the things I write
Because they are more of myself,
that I don't like to share.
My poems are me and me alone.
I hope you like them,
but more, I hope you like me,
even if I'm a mess.

I got caught up in poetry.
Her eyes, her hazel, are poetry.
Her hair, swaying,
Languidly left me
With purpose,
The tussle
Of a clumsy
Serenade.

Since she left,
The guitar strings
Echo her questioning.
They move
As though
To flicker back
To her eyelids,
To sway a feeling
Back to hope,
To dreams,
Coming back
To me.

Cruel is a day
So calm
     Without her.

Her soul is poetry.
She got me singing,
Covering
That Bic Runga song
Over and over,
Lulling the sun
To a blue blanket,
To sleep
One afternoon.

Yes, I miss her,
Clear as a sentence
Simply put,
     A ballad.

But there is no fear
     In love.
          I convince myself.

Love is patient
     Before it is kind.*

© 2015 J.S.P.