"crinkle" poems
except that you have
attached your parfumed,
par~col~odored exhalations
into our shared airs,
with uniqued fumes,
thy airy
essences
to thine own chosen words,
in combines never before
seen or heard,
but worn by you,
draped from chains abound your neck,
dripping from thy tongue,
dropping from thine eyes,
leaking from your pores,
from fingers in rose gold
adorning rings bright shining
so more, so unique,
impossible to misidentify
as anything anybody any anything,
but
yours, yours…yours,
but not belabor this
fact basic,
disguise your name,
hide your fame,
make your locale,
somewhere in the unreachable,
unreal,
multiverse,
none the less,
and allthemore,
cannot escape,
the ultimate reality,
when first you press that
keyed
SEND,
you have parted, done with,
an immeasurable
small but grandeured piece of
your unique self,
if that makes you anxious,
here my eyes crinkle sympathetically,
am please to blurt
this major alert:
u have nothing to fear,
too late, too late,
you are now made,
part and particle,
past participle
futured history in
the particulared,
longest continuum
on this tiny, tiny
planet
oh well,
just thought you'd
like to know,
despite your guises,
your are now
100 per cent,
immutable ^
10/5/25 staying alive
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 8:23 PM UTC
I want to touch my fingertips
To the center of the brim of your cap
And run them along the edge
One hand in each direction
Until the stiff peak gives way to soft fabric.
I will gently slide my fingers
Under the edge of your cap
Until it lifts off your head
So that I can toss it behind you
To be forgotten about.
I will trace your jawline
While you say things
In that honeyed, gravely voice of yours
Only it's not quite gravel- not that harsh
More akin with rough sand.
Then you will smile
And your teeth will shine white against your tan skin
While your eyes crinkle and laugh
And I will fall, sinking into their pool
Of warm, caramel coffee.
You will find my hand with yours
And interlock your fingers with mine
Holding them both to your chest
Your hands are large, rough, and strong
You only hold my hand, but my body is paralyzed
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 3:26 AM UTC
Someday you’ll love you.
From the sparkle in your eye,
To the pitch of your laugh,
Even the color of your hair.
You will love every part,
From every wrinkle,
To every crinkle,
Every part of you.
But they will try to tear you down,
To make you frown,
To make you think you’re not worth it.
But darling you listen to me.
From the way you walk,
To the way you talk,
You will be mocked,
But don’t you listen.
From your weight,
To your height,
You are all wonderful to me.
Maybe one day you’ll see,
The beauty I see.
The way you were made,
So beautifully.
But until then,
Do not forget,
On how true beauty,
Comes from within.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
*If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my stress, and cares.
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!*
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
All those laughters
Are not always real
All those faces in a park,
Wrinkled and weary,
Laugh in a circle,
Devoid of happiness,
No sign of a crinkle,
Eyes without light,
Devoid of life.
Their happy sadness echoes,
On the streets, in apartements,
The dismal vibes reach us
Yet they emanate the fake sentiments.
Stoop a little and evesdrop that circle,
They deceive emotions, black and purple,
All you hear is a shouting troop,
We know the truth of a laughing group.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
I fell in love with your eyes
The same ones that sparkle
Through all your years
I love how they crinkle
When you gently flutter your eyelashes
I'm completely hypnotized
I see all your feelings flash
behind those hazel eyes
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
august’s withered days swing from view.⠀⠀
flicker of a breeze caresses earth’s cheek.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
crinkle of a leaf, a wail beneath your feet.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
a wispy veil of dew covers the dried remains of a summer’s past.
treetops glistering, vibrant golden hues⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
first flicker of daybreak rising slowly.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
an infant’s feeble cry of autumn’s might.⠀⠀⠀
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
i don’t think I found myself in the poetry, i think i am finding myself in your arms
under the gentle pressure of your fingertips and the velvet embrace of your words.
they think I found myself in the halls of the airport that it walked alone
but
i think i am finding myself in the kitchen of your flat, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil; in cups of tea nursed at the table and I hope that’s okay.
i sip in the same tentative manner that i reach for your hand in the dark; you may have the effervescent beauty of a tree in the autumn but right now i would like to lace my fingers with yours and be human together. i hope that’s okay.
you are like literature and myth; a deep and sprawling spectrum of contradictions and complexities. i feel like teiresias; blind and trapped within my own self-made cocoon of spiralling thoughts.
eyes closed i reach for your hand.
i almost miss my stop on the last train home spilling out sweet words about your everything.
her hair straight out of bed with soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite; carved from the finest marble i want her to pin me down,
to the bed, to reality-
her lips, to guide me
from her waist and back
to sanity. early in the morning
when she wakes up tangled in sheets
with her eyes peeking up over her phone,
soft smile on her lips.
the world stands still in the soft glow of flickering street lights like visible heartbeats, glowing and not glowing in tandem, and the windows are frosted along the edges; worrying a cracked lip between my front teeth i realise this may be the most I have ever thought about tea.
our fingers
tangle, grasp sheets or cheeks rosy
with first-kiss smiles. eyelids
crinkle.
you are butterflies in my stomach, fear and exhilaration, honesty and hope
you are
listening to the same song on repeat; your laugh is the song stuck in my head, every song i’ve ever loved,
the only song i want to listen to.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I step outside and feel my nose crinkle
Look to the sky and watch the V’s fly south
Walk through the woods and hear the leaves whistle
Take a deep breath and taste fall in my mouth.
A start to the happiest time of year
Everything’s changing like wind where it blows.
Squirrels hide acorns, scarecrows create fear,
Pumpkins make faces at kids and their clothes.
Delectable treats in bags and buckets,
Scary films to watch on the edge of your seat.
Kids running around creating ruckus,
Stomping on leaves in the street with their feet.
Lets not forget Oktoberfest and beer;
Where people gather ‘round to celebrate
A special event that’s held every year,
Something so special you can’t replicate.
Delicious mystery looms in the air
While evil spirits meander ‘round town.
Libra gives the torch to Scorpions heir
And leaves pile up into one big mound.
The autumn harvest is now creeping up
Making food to put on everyone’s plate.
A great time of year where change is a must
Because without change, nothing can be re-made.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
I'll hold your hand through the wizened wrinkles; even if your beautiful mind will eventually crinkle.
Crinkled & crumpled into creases too deep for sunshine to peek through.
(My fingertips will still slowly but surely fix it.)
Even when the hair tickling my bare shoulders, collarbones & necks on lazy sunday morning is no longer quite the same.
I'll be right here.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Joy murmurs above.
We crave patience.
Twisting the top off each other's head.
Who first insults permission.
Applying our hands as cups.
No longer dull to the vapor of how we feel.
We recline in long verse.
Spudders of interruption.
The rush of anticipation.
Pressed against the couch.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Opening up to you without cease.
Frequent sips of red wine.
Tilting you over filling my cup.
Eager to sip in weighed sway.
I hear and smile.
Feeling the effects.
How you laugh.
How you smile.
It's funny how time flies.
Leaves in Spring.
Blown away, scrunched up in the crinkle of your dress.
Rustic brown & red accented in black.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
There's no alternative.
I'm an alcoholic.
Pursuing sip after sip.
Civil in how we converse.
Neighboring bold taste
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
I wish I could write him a letter
just to ask how he was doing.
If the food tastes different there
if the sky is bluer at 10 AM
if he can see the moon from his window
But really, all I want to know
is if he loves the crinkle of written-on paper
as much as I do
and if sometime, he might
want to write me back
just to feel the paper between his fingers
and the words beneath his palms?
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
So there's this girl; pretty, gorgeous and nice.
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles genuinely
and I hope she knows her beauty eventually.
Because she has a pure soul that can entice.
There's this girl, whose favorite color is blue.
Who stays up past midnight to finish a book
and then falls asleep in her own comfy nook.
Tiredly waking to a pale dawn covered in dew.
There's this girl, that takes up all of my time.
Who lights up my phone all hours of the day
and expects a paragrapth on the 28th of May.
So there's this girl, this girl that I call mine.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
the morning sky
performs a hot dance of rain.
ever-growing lime washes away,
white and sour mistaken
by some noses as
aromatics.
a season
of ever-ending frost
absent from windows
and misty
misty
journey
through the rain
without an umbrella.
rain jilts
its luscious sun-lover
behind clouds.
it beheads drops into
the thin morning air
only to be crushed
by the sidewalk.
this excites the worms
who unearth themselves
like fishing-bait zombies.
the worms are then eaten
by the birds who brave
the rain and the slick
sidewalk, once baptized,
now eats their ****
I step in a puddle
with my rain boots.
there are holes in their
heels, and I feel
my skin start to crinkle.
I think of you
for the first time in sky water
unsubmerged
docked
landed
and lean in
to the liquid veil.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
When there are no cards left to play,
We start a new game.
There's never a winner,
Just two broken hearts and
Smiles that don't crinkle the eyes.
Do you remember when I buried my face in the plaid cotton of your shirtsleeve and cried,
'What do you want from me?'
'Everything,' you whispered into my mouth,
Your voice muffled as if we were breathing underwater,
Though we were both unprepared to drown.
Darling, if only we'd realized that when you took it all,
There'd be nothing left for me.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
Don't leave me,
I swear I won't be able to stand it
there are days when it feel like ***** is filling my lungs
and I am stupid enough to try and take another sip.
You're not just the sun,
You're the whole ******* universe.
I look at you and see galaxies, milky ways and star dust.
Yet I feel like the tiniest little falling star that's ready to burst.
Your laugh that you say is "so annoying"
is like orchestra music to me;
when the violin and cello intertwine
it's the most divine sound I could ever hear;
every hair on my body stands up
and in that moment I just kind of, fall in love.
Like that smile, oh that smile.
The way you crinkle your nose,
When you make me laugh like a child
and that tiny little he-he that you giggle back to me.
when you walk away to spend eight hours a day
slaving away to make food for people you don't even know
with people you don't even like.
I just want to throw my arms around you and pull you back,
say, " no. lets go take a nap"
I'll pet your hair and scratch your back.
I love to listen to the stories you tell me
the more I know, the more I become intrigued
I'm infatuated with you, who is so fascinating.
I know I am difficult.
you don't have to pretend like I'm not
instead of telling you that i'm struggling
I sit silently and let myself drown
and I know that I'm pulling you down to,
that's one thing I never want to do
cause without you, where I'd be
is a place where I don't think I could even call myself me.
It ***** that I'm needy,
and i'm sorry I'm so clingy
I'm not use to missing someone next to me when I sleep.
wanting to wake up to see your face
knowing that I can go on with my day.
my lungs won't be filled up
and for awhile I'll be able to smile
not wanting to drown out the pain with sleep or drugs.
Cause I dream about your eyes and I see galaxies
I think about your laugh and I hear music
"Beauuutiful" ( you always say)
yes you are. ( I always think)
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
Misunderstood please understand.
You hear, you think what you thought you would,
You remember what you thought before.
You close that door and think some more.
Remember the color of the emerald words I gave?
Do you remember the crisp noise of connections that they made?
Now do you?
Misunderstood.
You hear me through the speakers of your mind,
Little twists and bends and changes, you crinkle all my story pages.
You still remember what you felt before.
You close the door and feel some more.
Do you remember the scarlet words I gave you?
They gushed out of my torn heart like glistening blood?
NOW DO YOU?
Misunderstood.
All the noise running together in your head,
You try to open your moth to let some escape.
And when they pour out I sit down and take in the color.
Dear I fear that you could never really hear.
Emeralds ran into all the simple blue that’s you to blend into the scarlet.
Connections dissolved, you don’t, you
Misunderstood.
The words I gave are gone.
Your mind mixed hear and changed it there and turned it into brown.
I gave you all the beautiful colors of the rainbow,
But you would not take them for what they where.
You changed them, and held them together until it was all different
Until they where made all made the same.
Misunderstood.
This becomes the color of the truths you push away, and the words you mix around.
You find yourself spiting out this endless dingy brown .
I close the door, your spilling out onto the floor.
Keep what you have made I don’t want it, its yours.
Misunderstood.
Your not misunderstood, miss I’m to tired to stand.
Don’t blame the hand made reluctant to help ,
Your to covered with dirt for my brushing to help.
I know you , I love you , but I cannot make my miss understand.
I know my miss understood so I know that she can.
But she wont. I wonder why.
I have no patience to dote on you precious little feelings,
I’m so tired of the brown. Stop mixing colors, oh miss.
Until you make some changes I will have to leave you
Sitting and spiting on the dingy brown ground.
I love you miss I hope you understand.
Mis I know that you did so Mis I know that you can.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you how I spend the night thinking about you
to tell you how I dream the night with the thoughts of you
to tell you how I dance around my room with the songs about you
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you why am I up all night with my phone in hands
to tell you why am I blush a little every time you talk to my face
to tell you why am I so proud of things that I haven't had
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you how I love the crinkle of your eyes
to tell you how I realize you have the black spot on your left eyeball
to tell you how I love the cut of **** symbol in the back of your left hand
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you why time ticks so slow when you're not around
to tell you why I shut my mouth every time you're around
to tell you why my heart smiles every time you're near
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you how I wish upon the stars praying your name
to tell you how I feel every time the wind blows your hair
to tell you how I don't want you to stop flicking off your bangs
Am I brave enough to tell you?
to tell you how I want to hold both of your hands
to tell you how I want to lay down my head in the bony of your shoulders
to tell you how I want to tell you words I could not say, I love you
Am I brave enough to tell you that I love you?
Darling, tell me if I brave enough to tell you that I love you
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'the end'
the end of all things
the end of crinkle-eyed smiles
the end of early morning kisses
the end of late night giggles
the end of bathroom break tears
the end of raw vocal chords
the end of resentment
the end of love
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'new'
new start
new house
new freedom
new tears
new loneliness
new love
new life
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'i give up'
i give up on cleaning up your ***** cereal bowls
i give up on picking up your clothes
i give up on our queen-sized bed
i give up on two toothbrushes
i give up on two bathroom drawers
i give up on sharing a closet
i give up on sharing a life
i give up on you
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'give it away'
pictures of the life we shared? give it away.
that queen-sized bed? give it away.
four bedroom house? give it away.
circular piece of platinum? give it away.
diamond ring? give it away.
your love? give it away.
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'without'
without pain
without anger
without anxiety
without snoring
without kisses
without hands
without guidance
without a friend
without you
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'too'
too far
too bad
too sad
too much
too late
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
spells 'goodbye'
goodbye, my love
goodbye, dear old friend
goodbye, *******
goodbye, bane of my existence
i wish you all the best, but
goodbye, my friend
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
*** a couple times with your hand that
has one vein popped up over the knuckle. sheets crinkle
laundry sits in the small humid room.
smells like roadkill and peppermint,
like christmas eve with dinner down the toilet.
you've *** four times in an hour,
rubbing at yourself through your underwear.
don't touch skin. it's off limits today.
getting raw means you can feel
how it stings when you cross your legs.
it's not about pleasure. it's the reminder:
you want to know what you look like,
what you feel like.
next time you're ******* down some boy you ask him
"how does that feel?" he says "good."
quick kiss, his ****** is archaic and copper.
you like how it tastes. now it's your turn:
but of course he won't make you *** unless
you take your hand and rub while he *****
your hand a barrier between his body and yours.
"please be quiet," you say out loud
the boy furrows his eyebrows, "i didn't say anything."
you laugh, "no, my stomach."
pretend to *** for a faster exit.
give him a tiny maternal kiss.
let it linger out the room where it's cold but he's still warm.
you don't want a warmth you have to love because it's too much.
the scab on your neck is now a scar
and you have no make-up for the ones on your forearms, but
really, most of you by now is star dust and tobacco leaves.
the sun is in our eyes. i want to know
what makes a circle go on forever.
i think about ****** a lot.
dreamt two nights ago chris sold me some,
it was in that tiny wax bag with a "king ****** stamp .
when i texted him the next day said "i dreamt
we did some together," he said
"that's funny. i've been doing some definitely
but not really selling."
the Chicago cold does something odd enough to you.
it always seemed like you were alive as a kid. well,
were you?
where is your body? out in the storm.
are you a ghost? no, it would be nice though:
the lack of responsibility of life,
a state of impermanence.
it would be nice.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
you cry like lost toys and dead pets
there's nothing you can do about it right now
you cry like a small animal with a broken spinal chord
you keep whimpering, but it can only heal in time
you cry like pressing the skin of your palms
into the membranes of your eyes
when everything in your head is so cacophonous
you want to rub away all the little things you absorb
want that your hands could throw out this migraine
like a candy wrapper on the sidewalk
and if you believe hard enough that it's gone
you'll never notice the sugar rush or the comedown
so you press your hands to your face
as hard as you can and try to pray like a religious person
but you were raised christian and american and
the ways of believing and hoping and loving that you knew as a child
seem insincere now, and hard to speak
the language is not truthful
everything is what they told you it was not
nothing is what they told you it was
or everything was always what it was
and you or i could've told them that
and you think that wrapper might eventually end up in a landfill
if you go throwing it carelessly around
and sadness taken with too much sugar can be a toxic combination
so maybe making the bad things go away
is harder than throwing away the wrapper and enjoying the rush
maybe the wrapper is somewhere else now you can't get to
where you can't hear it crinkle or see it shrivel,
but you can still relentlessly feel it
getting whittled away by time and weather
while steadily melting down bits of you
as you pass your heart around
gasping inside the icebox
until one day you look up and the sun is a bloodier color
and your lungs are full of ice like pins
freezing inside of you
and when seconds before you had oxygen
as you begin choking, you think it's amazing how long
it seems to have been
since you were alive
your knuckles are dry from holding on
to a rusty ladder wrung
even when you want to move so badly
and there's nowhere to climb
you refuse to jump
and you're still trying to figure out
how to fall correctly
to break the least amount of limbs
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC