Denim, a durable fabric
Fading over the years
Eventually distressed, frayed
Like warm summer memories of years gone by
Not created to appear that way
But forged over the years
Like an old friend that has lost some luster
But is classically appealing still

True love should be like faded denim
A love of your life should gradually dim and become a classic memory rather than dissipate within months
A shared deep connection should tatter over years like the knees of a comfortable pair of denim jeans
There shouldn't need to be a reason to communicate when you have loved someone deeply
If a reason to communicate is needed months later, perhaps the love wasn't that intense as the care to just connect without a reason would still exist
Just as the color of denim will fade in intensity in time, so should the deep feelings one has. If a loved one vocalized that they would have turned their life upside down for you, it would take years rather than months to be at peace with not speaking frequently

Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

Here we are
One and done
A love gone astray

Feeling used
A bit confused
As trash just thrown away

Perhaps one day
You'll realize
The value of what you had

A loving friend
A romantic end
Something not so bad

Life will go by
The tears will dry
A love pulled apart

Put up your walls
Watch us fall
You'll always have my heart

Here we are
One and done
As once again you leave

Feeling used
A bit confused
What exactly did this achieve?

Blind to the subject of being blind in love –
does that mean I can see?

Do I believe in the belief; of love at first sight
isn’t faith believing in that you cannot see,
that which you hope to be?

But I could close my eyes to a better scene –
when we go out and it doesn’t go so well;
we should have made it a blind date!

            Now this love feels blind.

Waking up at 3 am
Looking at my phone
Searching for a Telegram
To know I’m not alone
Thinking of the time we had
Watching the sunrise
Haunted by last visions of
The tears in your eyes

Where are you now
Where can you be
Is the picture clearer now
Without me
Forever more
We’ll never see
In the abyss of memories
Is where we’ll be

Moving on was hard to do
A part of me is gone
Pictured moments of our time
Living through our songs
Wishing you a happy life
Though we are apart
Our lives forever changed
We held each other’s hearts

Where are you now
Where can you be
Is the picture clearer now
Without me
Forever more
We’ll never see
In the abyss of memories
Is where we’ll be



Tears that we cry
Go unconsoled
A treasured tale
That never will be told

Where are you now
Where can you be
Is the picture clearer now
Without me
Forever more
We’ll never see
In the abyss of memories
Is where we’ll be