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Ralph Albors Sep 2015
On the dawning horizon, Barcelona.
Above us, a quiet storm rages.
A meter away, Isabel,
with her abyssal draw-well eyes,
Silence as her name,
catapults for legs.

Your name, nothing more.
Your past and life, trivial.
Only your name was important
and I obtained it: Isabel.
It was but a physical infatuation,
completely platonic and surreal.
You whose name I will forget.
    June 31st
Ralph Albors Sep 2015
You with the draw-well eyes,
and gold ingots for hair,
with Silence as your name,
and catapults for legs;
I shall learn your name today,
I shall forget your face today.

Your draw-wells' potable water
will flow down your cheeks,
and your hair's gold will devalue,
and your mouth's silence will speak,
and your legs' wood will break;
nothing but your name shall remain.
You whose beauty shall fade.
    June 30th
Ralph Albors Sep 2015
You, with the draw-well eyes,
I know not who you are,
I do not know where you're from,
but I could scrutinize your eyes,
as abyssal as water wells,
for a whole eternity, and more.

You who prance and dance
to any and every rhythm,
I long to know everything about you,
discern your likes and dislikes,
fathom all your insecurities
and make you forget them.

You whose look spans
all seven seas and the four winds,
stare at me forever,
penetrate my self as light does.
Make me feel unique, as if the world
turned around me, around you.

You with the draw-well eyes,
grant me the pleasure
of knowing who you are,
where you come from and are going to;
allow me to study those eyes
for one, two, three eternities.
You who stole my sight.
    July 29th
Ralph Albors Sep 2015
write a poem about me
and compare my auburn hair
to the twilit autumn sky.

say I’m the most important person
that ever walked into your life.
say it, and mean it.

translate your verses into Italian
and scream them for me at 1am
so I can appreciate but not understand.

love me like no one else has.
show me why I’m a plant
and you’re the sun.

break my heart and fix it up
then break it all over again.
I wouldn’t mind, not at all.

write another poem about me
and compare our memories
to the faded Polaroids we never took.
If you date a poet, don't ask him/her to write poems about you.
Ralph Albors Aug 2015
"I don't want/miss/still love my ex
I'm a hundred percent sure of that.
It's the relationship I miss."

"Not the person?"

"Yeah. Not the person.
I miss the relationship part,
if that makes any sense.

It's the being there for each other,
the stories at the end of the day,
the comfort of their kisses,
the softness of their touch,
the sweetness in their voice
when they need your help
getting a can of vegetables
that's high up in the pantry."

"Not the person, right?"

Or, perhaps I do miss the person
and the memories,
and I'm just lying to myself
to make it hurt less."
My last break-up destroyed me.
        June 24, 2015 at 00:44
  Jun 2015 Ralph Albors
Pablo Neruda
Don't go far off, not even for a day
Don't go far off, not even for a day,
Because I don't know how to say it - a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in
An empty station when the trains are
Parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then
The little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
On the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
Into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for
A second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll
Have gone so far I'll wander mazily
Over all the earth, asking, will you
Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Ralph Albors Jun 2015
Time does and undoes,
builds and destroys.
Time plays with our lives
with Destiny, its best friend.

We, mortals, are Time's pawns
and are subject to Its decisions.
Hence why sometimes we love,
but that love is not returned.

"The timing isn't right,"
individuals crush our hearts.
And who are we to blame them?
Time cares not, for we are Its toys.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
All Time does is taunt and mock.
The fact that I met you,
is it chance or Destiny's work?

Time consumes like a black hole.
We are mortals so that It can feed,
consuming our bodies
until all that remains is ash.

And Time rejoices and laughs and sings,
as it plays with our psyche and nature:
our instincts say we should not let go,
but Time sunders us however it can.

Death and love. Love and death.
They are Time's renowned pleasure:
Time executes its subjects;
Time murders love.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
The clock never stops.
There is no escape, in a land
where everything is determined by Time.
But who are we to blame Time?
We are but mortals
attempting to find meaning
where there is none.
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