Wait for me to rewrite
the parts we haven’t written yet,
to fill the well that’s run dry.
Take my hand when I reach for you
and we point toward today.
Scatter new memories on the loose,
leaving behind promises gone cold,
Sticky yellow squares
float in the air,
with their good intent
of what you don’t want to forget.
A day’s worth of notes
wistful words you wrote
thoughts not lost
firmly held in place
just in case.
Fingers trace your spine,
feel the strength there,
the ripple of pleasure
as we turn another page,
savor the words etched
on each other’s lips,
enter a new chapter.
Photo – L. Burton
I wished for that moment to last
and then wished for you to come back.
Wishing doesn’t make it so
down where silver and copper grow
and that odd heartbeat sound
in the places wishes go unbound.
We aren’t static,
you and I.
We move inside of each other,
shifting, sometimes not so gracefully,
but in a moment, when time and distance
is erased, a spark catches fire,
a seamless design emerges,
and we dance at the edge
You’ve never known the fog
until you’re rolling
in it; until it’s smothering
you like a lead blanket.
Reality becomes a dream-like state,
push against the darkness.
Not satisfied with your own mortality,
every breath a double-edged sword.
Cold, gnarled fingers
you can’t place but you know
they lurk in shadows as demons.
Death consumes you.
An easy exit table
she’s half in, half out
yet drawn to the promise
of a warming midnight reprieve,
hoping to find solace in nursed coffee.
Her thoughts swirl in tune with idle stir
as headlamp washes reveal blurred
moments of knowing not seen.
Curling ribbons of steam
rise upon drawn reflection,
mingle with words
forming frayed edges of verse
as slowly a poem is found.