Lady In Satin
rotates ‘round the phonograph
in melancholic

motions, leaving my
swollen tear ducts to moisten
my dry, longing skin.

I can no longer
write about your tender lips.
or vivacious eyes.

I can no longer
write about your presence- so
inebriating.

I can no longer
write about your honest soul
or audacious heart.

I can no longer
wish upon the moon in hopes
of you returning.

I can no longer
keep knocking on hope’s closed door.
I can no longer

love you.

New limbs,
New eyes,
New lips,
New lashes-
It is all yours to kiss
and I have completely and utterly
disintegrated into melancholy.
Clutching onto my fragile bones
are the hungry ghosts from the
indelible memories imprinted onto my brain.

“We will always be close”
You said.
I cannot face  you without being able to kiss your eyes
or brush my mouth against your skin
or cast to you the smile I once smiled.
This is it.
It is time to let go.

Adieu.

I wished upon the
moon- and there we were finding
love beneath the sheets.

In your heart I know I had died.
My heart was young and so it cried.
I begged for the truth, but love lied;
we will collide, we will collide.

Distance severed our naïve bond;
Persistence stayed and I grew fond.
The seasons changed, still no respond;
hole of despond, hole of despond.

But now my heart is wise, dear friend,
and now my bell jar can ascend.
‘Twas my young self I did transcend;
you will befriend, you will befriend.

If we shall meet in brighter skies
fearlessly greet me with pure eyes.
In that time exists no demise;
don’t say goodbye, don’t say goodbye.

Time is merely a nonexistent concept
when your dark Oak wood eyes kiss
mine — and it is then that my skin
unravels itself as I become lost
in the inebriating feel of your presence —
intricacy makes up your delicate touch
and I have never felt such pristine and
tepid skin — my fearful soul has been
unhinged and you have inhabited my
hollow heart — I am not afraid and my
hope has been replenished —
promises of eternity have been planted
as you float in my crimson bloodstream
claiming ownership of every cell that creates
my being — these signs of possible love from
you permit my mind to wonder if it is enough
to profess my own love for you — one could
certainly be mistaken, though, given your
natural deceiving tendencies — perhaps I
am the moon you become desirous for
when the sun fails to rise in the deepest
craters of your mind — I will without hesitance
conquer your soul the way you have with
mine — and fear will run aggressively off
the cliff never to be seen again — and
our ardent love will lace itself between
every star that comforts the moon above
our bed as we find each others soothing
touch — and it is then that we both will
disintegrate into the wind — watering the
promise of eternity.

I have gone so long without writing that the skin
on my fingers is cracking and little ash particles
fall slowly to the ground when I attempt to write again.
Writing will moisten my dried wounds and stitch my
thoughts into the crevices of my fingers so as I write
they will gently unravel themselves and fall into place.
Walt Whitman said that in order to capture the heartbeat
of life one must write in the instant, and that is what I have
been lacking to do for some time now. Perhaps that may be
the reason for the lifeless words lain strewn across the
pages of my leather bound journal. Journal? No. Coffin.
Cobwebs of lonely spiders have inhabited the thoughts
I have murdered, catching the words - slithering like worms -
that have managed to escape the death I caused.
I am capable of resuscitating my dead words, and that
is what I will do.