Sitting in his armchair
Comforted by the thick woollen sweater
4:15, the clock shows
Sipping on his bittersweet coffee
He reads the same book for the tenth time.
Out of the window
He glances,
As if someone there awaits
Like always
A sweet face of a lady
Smiles at him
Into a million fireworks
His heart explodes
He laughs at himself
When the face disappears
Everyday repeats itself
same place, same coffee, same book
If only she lived,
Things would've felt a little less robotic

My eyes swimming, the lamplight
bobbing as it is held in my gaze; I watch
the door swing closed with a
resounding click.

Just a moment before were your hands, floating
an arms length away from the sun-
warmed duvet, shuffling in the effort
of untangling your headphones,
methodically stowing them in the
pocket of your jeans.

The door sweeps shut, your silhouette in
the hallway lighting now stifled and
the dancing figures
of the oak leaves are
swaying together upon the carpet. The window
glowing soft and meandering over my shoulder.

With a resounding jolt of latch meeting strike
plate; I am left with the hum of passing electricity,
the grazing cadence of
my exhales,
and the lukewarm divot in the sheets where
I hold your departed presence captive.

I've made my darling
A chocolate mousse
Fluffy and creamy
Melts in the mouth
Thick, yet light
The taste is ravishing
Once you'd try it
You'd never wanna stop
Wipped with cream top
Little melts on the sides
The house smells so sweet
As the baking of two was on
Mouth-watering delicacy
I've prepared after so long
Top sitting a strawberry
With the blushing redness
Oh, berry you'd be sorry
As you'd be eaten soon
It's tea time already
So a very good afternoon all...

©sim

I’d like to take you to this moment, it’s five in the afternoon and downtown Portland is quiet.

The sidewalks are cluttered with bodies silently moving,
sleepily dodging the sun
the sounds of sirens
doors slamming
cars braking for red lights
fill the lapses of time
I walk slowly through the crowd
reflections of sunlight jumping off tower windows
illuminating my elbow
three freckles on my forehead
my right knee
The space surrounding me smells strongly of burning tobacco
foods dipped in boiling oil
rich, dark coffee.


There’s a way my lungs jolted before and there’s way they do now.

The parachute of air running in and out
flexing like wings inside my chest.
How they used to flutter


how they once had a choreographed routine

                        designed around their sudden need jolt
                      
                                                  whenever they thought of being near lips


Now, in the shadows of concrete and plexiglass they remain following a newfound mundane routine
flapping their wings only to keep me upright
only to feed the world between my ears


I’d like you stand in this moment

                               wrap your fingers in the way loss pulls like a trigger

Wake you  up to the world where the towers finally fall
allow you to watch as they cascade towards you and feed each human instinct that follows, do you run?
Do you stand in fear?
I want you here in this moment alone
in your interpretation of a body

I want you to see the way I pull on you
the way I run from you
the way I stand
glued to the ground
as each wave washes over me

The way you came into my life anxious
the three seconds where the entire block is silent
and you can suddenly hear each and every single one of the vibrations your body makes
when no one is looking you in the eyes as they pass you by.

I don’t even know how bite into you
                                                          when you’re just the lapse in time

the five in the afternoon lull that manifests the slow
rhythmic pulsing of my heart
feeding only to keep me alive
the machine that clicks at every passing minute

                                                         I want you to crave the connection

the sounds of voices
the stem of a scream to grow inside your throat

                                                        let it consume you

the way it does me
a fear not of being alone, but never truly being seen

In retrospect,

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with that summer sunlight,
cascading down onto the sward

where you and I
sat in the deep shade of a noble oak tree—

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with that dignified roar from Yosemite Falls
resounding throughout the valley

and those songbirds chirping out a perfect counterpoint
in the immediate foreground,

the nicest part
of that whole afternoon—

what with the dry dirt of that flawlessly unkempt
softball field warming our bare toes,

and those children playing—
their shadows ever lengthening—
in that eternal Eden…

In retrospect,

the nicest part
of that

entire

afternoon

was getting to spend it
with you.