"tabletops" poems
I should have lived to thank you more,
where the blue dots and the green dots
met on a stormy porch-front streaming
crack-paint, blank and dirt from years
of games on the blurry tabletops.
Years of games.
We should have walked in the fields,
you the tide swelling and falling and
ultimately disgorging universes of all
you used to know: the good and the small
and the stern and the silly and the cruel.
The good and the small.
He will take your place in the shows,
in all the nightlies and the dailies,
grey hat and black sash. He is taller
by far, and you can't look up to someone
that unabashedly taller than you.
Grey hat and black sash.
You would have made time for me between
strides on the honest diamond of the sky,
and I? I might not listen at all, but
the pearl in the glasses, those awful
brown glasses would stay with me.
I might not listen at all.
She sat with us many evenings as the
winds raked the small lights of our speech.
What has become of her, I wonder more
frequently, but sleep with my head
on my hands all the same.
Sleep with my head on my hands.
They call me under the door, they call.
They fill me with themselves until I'm out.
Just what they want from me and less. Still,
they can't tell me the good and the small,
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
O,
Row from the tabletops if,
If, if
Row from the tabletops if,
or when
O,
Burn at the fun'ral pyre,
pyre
Burn under heaven's fire,
fire
Stop me if you hear this one,
under the flesh
heavy wantonness,
energy light to dance
moves behind your lid
undo the flesh
future corpses do dance
do dance
O,
Future corpses do dance
do dance
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
I'll write and say same words I've said
ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
thought I had some traction
but it seems I thought too soon--
So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."
And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to **** our heads with
I'll pick a place, polish my boots
get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
and sweat rolls down in sheets
Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of ****** quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
when it rolls around
But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
--at 33 revolutions per minute,
and 16 ounces at a time,
we can almost cope.
Now, it's winter and the sheets are
still too warm
Now, it's winter and we sheet the
snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we **** our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?
I'll sing a song and **** the lights before I go.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
In a few more years I see myself playing the piano-drunk
And signing on tabletops.
In a few more years I see myself kissing strangers and falling out of love
Or back in.
In a few more years I see myself learning to swim
And jumping off cliffs praying that I live.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
My Mother was sad –
When I had walked, talked
And left the girl there,
All alone in her bed,
The bed I’d fled
And cushion not my own
As I’m now laying,
Sheets up to chin
And lying as well, at home,
My mother’s home,
But the home she said,
I’d "always have.”
I roll over.
My bed, my very own,
Is hours away and if I were,
“There,”
I’d still hear her tears,
My mother’s
And those of the “others” I’d left
Behind, left before, abandoned
In that very bed that’s now
And hers, only hers,
Far from ours or ever will be;
An “Eden,” becoming exile;
Truth in prior trespass – an end.
I roll over.
And as selfish as all this may sound,
I saunter to the smell pancakes,
Maple syrup,
And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead;
Up until the grief of a mother –
Tears atop tabletops,
A stream quite displaced from mad,
Where my visits, become few, far
And even further,
Most importantly – Alone;
For her, for me and it pains her even more,
The solitude of, “I.”
I roll over.
Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow,
But something else awry. Awry or away,
Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again,
Snores intermitted renewed grin
Under dreamt up birthday cakes,
Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps
Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home.
So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow
And a small dog at her feet,
She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied.
The one left behind, probably not though,
As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled
Drink come reckless.
I roll over.
And like her, I’m still awake,
Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep,
Because I’m –
A little ashamed, a tad content,
Still tired though and as odd as this may
Sound, or not,
Hungry for breakfast
As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled
Cries
And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a
Sacred long gone;
Solace in only one of the two being happy,
But one more than the two that weren’t before.
I roll over and will again and again
And again.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
I
An orange overcast this
evening splayed pink
hues stripes and
saccharine beads. The
twilight caricatures live golden years.
Restless becoming in the garden of
her drunken sons their flowers
soaked in brass, seams
bursting in uncontrollable
laughter we pause. To
admire the briefness
of that era exploding
its petals peppering
spraying saliently we spill
indoors churning across tabletops.
My arms hang dead by my sides.
Her eyes gaping sway
swiftly biting deeply the dottedfaces
lurch. Streets fall unconditional
amidst tears we comb lips
sharply distinctly
her stubborn *** stumbling
handles loosening she holds
my hand my arms hang
dead we pause.
II
Children babble sunlight across
lawns; I hear sirens traffic icecream nips
our tongues twinge on windless
pipes gust our hair flying smiling
at laughter from the
playground behind us.
Placid smiles stain enamoured
halls; for glimpses
we mumble necks crooked
sheets flap draped over bars
her eyes waver glisten
shiver. A warm breeze
dries my hair.
III
Wallowing I oscillate utmost trep-
-idation entangling grappling but
hushed beneath foliage eyes
downturned soil clings when her
fingers impress deeper through
to where rivers end.
Glowing dawn I turn further
lighter almost her hair caught
between the floors;
gently feverish we see turgid
lines the tinniest cracks we pray
on tranquil mornings.
Window panes blemished it was
spring only darker from
deafened rivers throbbing;
under lucid eyes I fold
and heralds blare. We consume
the silence sounding from still lakes.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
maybe some day
we’ll get the courage to tell the people we love
how we feel
but that day is not today
still-
there’s this danger
that tomorrow may never come
that there are too many things
we leave on the side
and save for a rainy day
that we push onto a shelf
and bookmark for later
and the words never come pouring out
but stay quiet and hidden in the dark
and maybe it’s for the best
but then we never realize
that these words could have meant something
to someone
that maybe they could’ve changed one thing
a little thing
that meant a whole lot
that maybe they just needed
a little push
an ounce of support
a single word
to lift the load day by day
and maybe we should have taken the words off the shelf
and given them away day by day
left little bits and pieces
on tabletops and car windows
on seat cushions and blankets
on television screens and corkboards
on billboards on the way to work
and traffic signs on the way home
on arms and hands and cheeks and chests
things that accumulated day by day
and made someone feel a little less heavy
and a whole lot more loved
but the truth is
every day goes from hours till dark
to minutes
to seconds
to moments that drift away and slip off our fingers
and before we know it
the sun has set
the lights have gone out
the birds have gone to sleep
and the moment has past
“there’s always tomorrow”
we say
but what if the load gets too heavy?
what if it breaks their back?
what if everything comes crashing down a little too soon
and it won’t take a little word to fix it?
what if you open up the jar on the shelf
and find that the words you’ve saved up
are no longer enough?
what then?
what then
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
Elbows propped on tabletops,
we roll out our worlds, like a red carpet,
across the surface between us.
Mapping out our weeks
we speak in riddles
only able to be understood by
present company and others with
an acute appreciation for the absurd.
Round 1
We begin by bouncing pleasantries
mingled with snark and
littered with nonsense stories
across the space where our scotch glasses
drain lazily between us.
Round 2
Brings with it a new tone-
we begin to slip into hypotheticals
and start the dangerous
and all too familiar process of
looking over our own shoulders.
The past seems to sneak
into the pauses and reminiscing starts
to seem too surreal to be appealing.
Round 3
And we are forced to keep reluctant company
with the regret that now speckles the tabletop in front of me.
Our eyes retreat from each other
as our mouths start forming
around our greatest inadequacies.
Fear of the future,
we're petrified by the present.
We are forgetting how to be hesitant
as coping mechanics drift and split.
Round 4
**** starts to get real.
You try to be ambivalent.
And I just get angry.
Round 5
I am entertaining the possibility
of weeping publically.
(It's an unfortunate emotional default setting)
Round 6
We find our way back
to the familiar.
Accessing the damage
we joke to save face
while working to wind the loose ends
back together again
to stash them from where they came.
(But nothing ever fits back into its box as easily after its been unpacked)
Each week we try to be
each other's comfort zone
to crawl inside
to rest awhile.
But tonight we're too exhausted
and too self-absorbed
and too similar to get it right.
We'll try again next week,
on the next high-top next Wednesday night.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
The smoke curls into the music’s soft beat,
Crushed plastic cups amidst broken bottles,
Guitars scratch while lights flash on dancing feet,
Swaying as they sing, fair faces mottled.
Sticky air matches sweaty tabletops,
Grimy shoes crunching to midnight’s raw throb,
The next table neighbors taking more shots,
Smell, puke on the floor from Kelly the slob.
This is nothing like your green mountain trails,
Where air is crisp and stars smile not scream.
***** or pine straw, ash or fresh gale,
Not ***** my dear, but taste the pure stream.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Unfrozen, surviving in miles of silent wasteland
Somehow risen from cold to my feet, but not breathing
Am I flawless that I drift so lightly with a Western wind?
Or so flawed that I don't admit I'm desperate for coming home
The final night with my elbows on the throne
Laughing over longing after end to the infinite.
Beheld well with the highest intention to flatter you
Maybe I'll die in laughter when you realize I invite you to bitterness,
brittleness to the shattering for which I'll want you close
Because with another's bloodstains I can live alone
Using what I've siphoned to make my ill-advised scratches on tablets on tabletops.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
Hurry waitress to the lackluster pancakes of the restaurant, your fingers smelling from its bacon.
Past my dingy silverware, vacuous plates, a cup of dead coffee grounds, your watered eggs. Your hair-tie snapped like a bomb exploding on the cover of a paperback Hiroshima. Let us go, waitress, and learn all of the reds in that sunset. The crimson sun hovers over deep cornflower waves. The ocean’s mist blinds us from ketchup-smeared napkins fallen onto waterlogged tabletops. A disaster zone you hope to be rescued from through an exit sign door.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Mutterings and murmurs all inane
Tabletops keep turning, turning round
I do think I have gone insane
Polychords create a dissonant chain
Of ghastly nails-on-chalkboard sounds
Mutterings and murmurs all inane
Dysfunctional symphony in a hellish train
Along the way to iniquitous underground
I do think I have gone insane
We stop; the left man pulls me into acid rain,
And we waltz in an urban burial ground
Mutterings and murmurs all inane
Fleshy neurons dance vapidly in my brain
Amber, scarlet, vermilion flames abound
I do think I have gone insane
Macabre figures gather and dance in the nefarious fain
They put thistles and roses on my head; I am crowned.
Mutterings and murmurs all quite inane
I do think I have gone insane
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
This is the first moment that ever was, the crossing metal beams and glass panes,
The blurred reflections of finely polished tabletops
The meticulous tangles of crinkly hair in a variety of unique styles
All murmur to me from a shared experience of eternity
Reminding me that I should
Wake up
All the past is here with me
Unsteady, unwieldy
All the past is waiting for me to open the door and let it be free
And when I do I too will be free
For I am the past even more than the past is me
But I too am the future
As is the past
But I can't let past become future
If I don't WAKE UP
I'll be DEAD soon
Here I am, at WAKE tech*
'Twould be the height of ignorance
Not to see the message
Wake up.
Wake up.
Here I am for the first time in my life
The empty branches never held life, even losing it now
They are not characters of linear narratives
Even the happiness of unions between me and me again
They are born today, none share histories but those they've writ themselves
Wake up.
Remember that time,
So present,
It slipped away
That short synchronous gateway
When I broke through,
When I was nearly awake.
That time is not gone.
Look, look down,
You're wearing a t-shirt from Cup a Joe,
The place where you nearly woke up
Look down, your umbilical cord was cut
And you lived there
On Hillsborough Street,
Just past Cup a Joe
And a beautiful woman right above your head
WORKS there, the mythic place
Where you, where I nearly awoke.
How absurd, to think all would decide to converge there
Independently of each other
It was written
Before all began,
And now begins Time, untime
Now it begins
Remember? Look down, she said
"Be here, Be Here Now"--but remember? HE said Be Here Now
And here I were--
There I was
Impossible, yes, I know
But do you really want to pretend
That it matters
what's
POSSIBLE?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
I want to get the universe off with my presence,
take apart the grass machines and put them back
together, we can eat the sun whole if we want to,
and I will swim upstream back through the tunnels,
folding time over for an ant to walk across, if only
I could live forever, I want eternity to **********
to my image, if only I could wander without getting lost
I would dance on the tabletops,
and tie you down with rainbows
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
I read it once;
I wonder if they'll ever know, the hell where youth and laughter go
I've seen it.
In soft armchairs.
And plastic tabletops.
And bibs so the food doesn't get on the clothes.
Stripped to your skin and exposed to the world,
You'll say nothing.
Stand and let yourself be cleaned.
You hadn't noticed the wet between your legs.
Or the smell.
Sit calmly, placid.
Watch as one bites another,
Scrapes at a neck,
Screams for them to go away -
visible to no one else.
She will kick and grab and pull and cry.
But alone she cannot stand.
She will crumble to the ground,
Fall into your arms,
Tell you "Really, I've had enough this time."
But such notions soon fade.
Back to the hatred.
The little one in the corner cries for a mother she buried years before,
mama, where are you?
And someone removes their top, throws it to the ground.
This one here will follow you.
He's a lost soul.
And he wonders,
Could you find it?
These were once fresh and young.
These shriveled and confused faces before you.
Their youth and identity and sanity,
vanished to unknown depths
Decayed with their minds into a lifeless state of living.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
The Moon is bright tonight,
I have a thousand sheep to count
You're on my mind, you're in my head
The last thought that lingers above my bed
As I breathe, as I pray, as I sleep, as I dream
With gentle steps, you'll interweave
your being into my subconscious
You've been here for a while
a few years you've claimed your place
The lines around your mouth when there's a smile upon your face
Can we dance beneath the stars tonight
and whisper of the Divine?
And when you've left, I'll write poems of how you were once mine
When I walk I'll remember, the silences, the glances
secret clasped fingers held beneath tabletops and hours hours hours
those long dark days of discovery and shared moments were ours
These days are ours for the taking.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
You were all the shades of purple
Violet petals blowing in the wind
Mauve smashed grapes between toes
Plum like bruises on bent backs
You melted into the hues of blue
Cornflower sky vibrant in July
Teal waves bombarding the coast
Navy like jeans with grass stained knees
You faded into the tones of green
Olive leaves on thick trunked trees
Lime frogs hopping on branches
Chartreuse like fresh cut kiwi
You gave into the tints of yellow
Golden sunrises on the horizon
Khaki canvases stretched thin
Canary like lemon drops on tongues
You were all the shades of orange
Tangerine bonfires at midnight
Rusty nails twisted into planks
Amber like dripping honey bee hives
You darkened into all the hues of red
Cherry slick tabletops in a diner
Rosy cheeks flushed from the cold
Pomegranate like bricked suburban houses
You waned into the tones of pink
Magenta cotton candy stuck to lips
Coral reefs blooming on the seafloor
Peach like skin after a day at the beach
You disappeared into the tints of white
Powdery snow on concrete ground
Cream goosebumps on silky thighs
Ivory like teeth through pursed mouths
And in sharp contrast, became black
Obsidian rocks at the volcanic base
Charcoal soot stuck under fingernails
Onyx like the deepest darkest night
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC
early morning at the
coffee house
toasted sesame bagel with jam and cream
cheese
coffee and cigarettes
crazy sparrows jumping in the hedges
of the patio
you and the old men
steaming cups, unraveled
weekend edition of the newspaper
on tabletops
you and the sweet, quiet old men
only they understand
going for a long walk
you hear two boys shuffling behind on their
way
to soccer practice
singing about the sunny side
of the street
your blood sings with them
blood is not of a violent
theme
not today
it's what keeps you alive
keeps you moving along
loving more
wild smile on your face as if you know
the damnest joke
a real good knee-slapper
a killer
of all solemn thoughts and
a promiser to
to be better, behavior and heart
a re-fertilized mind
from now on and ever
entering the city
the day smells of beach nights
lingering scent of sunscreen, sand, dark ***
vanilla cigarellos
the light turns green and you
step off the sidewalk
catching yourself in the
reflection of a skyscraper
emerging
from a busting, exploding crowd
looking like you always wished you would
a ballerina on-the- go
you are not a ballerina
but you whisper thanks and
keep the magic of today in your back pocket
like a paycheck
you've been owed
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
I’m no longer looking
forward (to anything,
anymore) and for the past
twenty days I’ve spent
most of my time engaged
in staring contests
with tabletops and ceilings.
But I’m smiling at the cracks
in the sidewalks—the sidewalks
we share, where I’m too distracted
finding beauty in the destruction
and the life that grows from it
to ever notice your ghost haunting
or your shoulder brushing mine.
I am amused how we can still
inadvertently share the same path,
it's similar to the sickness I feel
towards sharing roads with cops.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
There's a crack in the swollen sky today
We're caught
standing, stuck, underneath it.
Looking bad for the good guys down the home stretch
'cuz that ************ looks to be leaking.
Sad news from front offices
Sales figures are down again.
So bummed to slash your benefits
but what's best for you is none of their business.
With newsprint leaving light ink stains
on tabletops
and tips of the fingers,
they'll just dust crumbs from sweater vests
and sling their quarters into cold parking meters.
**** Here comes an avalanche!
Stay still. Just snow. We won't flinch.
Pretend that we can stand the stench
of the bodies on another warm Christmas.
Sad news from the offices
Pension plans are expensive
Have to reap your benefits
You should prob'ly look for work on the weekends.
Hope they like their breve drinks
Hope they won't stain fresh-bleached teeth
When the North Pole melts, the stores will sink
and the roofs of malls will stand in for beaches.
There's a crack in your lean wallet today,
It aches,
it's nothing money can't fix.
Maybe try and reapply after New Year's Day,
'cuz for now the sky is still ******* leaking.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
i just want to be the person you write poetry about.
not even good poetry.
the poetry of 1 AM text messages
that try to spell out love in sloppy metaphors about stars and eyes
the poetry that swells up in your throat while you're tired so when you speak it into my voice mail it's just "you're so beautiful and wow i'm so in love with you"
the poetry of rearranged letter magnets on the refrigerator
the poetry of small notes in jackets,
half rhymed abandoned words you scribble out between classes and forget in your backpack.
i want to be the person you spend hours scratching your head, tugging at your hair
trying to frame "you're so amazing and i'm waiting for you to realize i think you're so special" into beautiful flowing words.
i'm just saying
write me poetry and i will dance
like dust on your tabletops
glimmering in the light of the sun
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
I feel those stares
gnarly infringements
a flash of photograph
a creaking doorway
a breathless hallway
I swear I feel those stares
hidden under staircases
creeping around corners
kneeling under tabletops
I press my hand into my eyes
so I can't see anymore
there are eyes everywhere
but only those of my consciousness
a doorway here, a path there
an unmarked territory
a charity to my soul
thank you, my body
for allowing to remain me
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Hourglasses glued onto tabletops
Clocks that will stop ticking
A song that will end at a motion of the conductor’s hand
So are the lives we hold
So stop being afraid of living
Go
Have an adventure in a city you’ve never heard of
Try on clothes you’d never dream of wearing
Jump into a pool fully clothed
Create art even when your brain says you shouldn’t
Say the things you were always too afraid to say
Love the people you were always too afraid to love
And stop wasting your time hating yourself
You cannot hate yourself into loving yourself
Be kind to those around you
And don’t forget to be kind to yourself
Hold his hand in the pouring rain
Kiss her cheek
Loose yourself in a book you always said you would never read
Fall in love with a fictional character
Then have your heart broken when the author decides it is their time to die
Tell the stories you were always too afraid to tell
Call that soul you miss deep inside your heart
Even if it’s 2AM
Remember that cameras and cell phones can only capture photos
They cannot capture memories and moments
Don’t waste your time capturing more pictures than memories
Don’t waste your time wondering what people will think of you
It does not matter what people think of you
Don’t forget to live
Don’t forget to love
Don’t forget to forgive
Don’t forget to ask for forgiveness
Remember that our bodies are not meant to enter the grave
Well preserved, without a single scratch
We should arrive at our graves exhausted, battered
Hearts filled with the adrenaline of adventure
And shout with our last breath, **** What a journey!”
Life is messy
Life is hard
But most importantly, life
Only comes once
There are second chances in life
But there are no second chances at life
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
You live in the memories inside me
The flashbacks at the slightest trigger
You're in the footsteps I take
Holes in the ground that lead nowhere
You're in the cup of coffee that I hate
For I still crave a sip in the wee hours of dawn
You stay on tabletops like the dust of summer
Falling slowly only to stubbornly linger
You're the sunburn etched carelessly on my skin
Wishing for the pain to go and nostalgia to stay
You are the sun, the moon, the stars and the sea
The air inside my lungs, forever within me.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC