21st,
fresh,
young,  
impressionable.
Idly watching the growing days,
while your nights get shorter and empty,
longing for the return of that tiny
ray of sunshine,
to gently graze your cheek,
beaming more each day.
The moon waits in silence,
right behind,
with tidbits of time on a ticking lip,
two hands on it’s face,
squabbling over who reaches twelve first.
Midnight,
and the sun sleeps earlier,
with every passing second,
longing for resolution,
with the moon right behind,
only off by an hour,
twisting, manipulating,
the tide;
tongue.

Tell me a story,
tell me everything about your days,
the ones that had you laughing into the
never ending, hazy sunsets,
the nights that tore your soul to pieces,
only to leave you void and alone in the
decaying moonlight.
Tell me, please. I would love to just know,
every single idiosyncrasy that
defined your being.
Whisper it shyly if you must,
into the fridgid Winter air that
bites briskly at my cheeks,
in the hollowness that reverberates off
of this desolate city’s streets,
while everyone tucks in early.
Speak slowly, please,
through the melting ice, dripping
onto the pavement while you
help awaken Spring.
Sing a simple song through the
birds rediscovering life,
mutter a word in the commotion
of a typical weekday commute,
plant the seeds of memories,
to bloom in Summer heat
and unnoticeably appear to me.

If I saw you,
you’d be gone just as quickly as you had appeared.
In the blink of an eye,
as if you were a ghost,
teetering on the realm of physical,
breezing by with your presence,
only for it to be felt for a moment,
if that.
Enough time for it to barely register,
and safely return to a state of uncertainty.

crash.
  burn.
   rise;
    from the cigarette ash spilled on the bed.

I sat silently and wished for you,
because prayers couldn’t scratch the surface.

His emerald eyes,
hypnotized,
overanalyzed,
told the boldest lies,
loud as a lion’s cry,
watching chivalry die,
still offering attempts, tries,
to stay alive,
the groans and sighs,
over severed ties,
said otherwise,
only overdramatized,
and swiftly capsized,
in passtime highs,
so it’s always, “See you later”,
never goodbye.

I shall be telling this with a sigh.
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
deep hearted, pure, with the scent of dew,
still wet,
and the rough winds shake the darling buds,
with all her matter of fact about the storm
that’s sweetly played in tune.
But the silence sounds no worse than cheers;
A wild crowd of invisible pleasures.
The faces and darkness separate,
over and over,
covering everything,
blacker than a hundred midnights;
hearts as blithe as birds in a tree;
a broken bird who cannot fly;
unvoiced clamor ******* the air,
intertwining with grief like sea and river.