Closure
Closure
Upon this wall I sit and watch the tide
roll in and out, affection for the sand
as indecisive as your touch. Your hand
grazes mine. Is it true we really tried?
Perhaps I missed it when you tried to hide.
Your touch lingers, and I feel it demand
a part of me that no longer can stand.
Was this love just far too long denied?
But there was something here, and it still is
alive somewhere inside our broken hearts.
This poem is far too sentimental,
And yet I feel somewhere, somehow that this
needs to be said, before we fall apart
and crash into the waves that we feel call.
More Posts from Laceandpaper and Others
Passing By
His heart took a swan dive,
spelunking into his stomach with
a sickening splash. He could see
the hate in her eyes,
the hurt he’d brought her.
He had to look away.
He sees his stark reflection in the
glass of the door before it
slides silently away, welcoming him
into the forgiving warmth of the store,
warmth he knows he doesn’t deserve.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Before our first date you bought me white lilies. I guessed you didn’t know the symbolism. But as the two of us become one for the who-knows-what time – you, deep inside me and I, clenched tight around you – I wonder if you did. Sometimes I feel as if we have become dead together. Your burning skin pressed against me, answering my need, no longer smells like cinnamon, only sweat. As your lips caress my collarbone, my breast, my navel you no longer taste strawberry, only salt. This four-story apartment building, box-shaped and bland, no longer is a stepping stone to a better life, but just another reminder of how our plans fell through. I remember the lilies as your hands squeeze my aching flesh, too warm for a corpse. The sun rises and the birds chirp and I convince myself that we are not yet dead. Even if that sun has long faded our yellow curtains. Even if we hardly speak. Even if you no longer call me liebe, though we still make love. Even if your touch is the only thing I’m still living for.
Track 4
You step over the threshold to the
sounds of Beethoven and Mozart. Beautifully
complicated, an enigma I plan to spend
my life solving. Figuring you out is a
full time job, but all I’m paid is promises
and disappointments, affection and fear.
The definition of forever grows smaller
and smaller, a wrung out sponge. Will
we be the ones to soak it full again?
Arpeggios leave out what’s in between.
Pop the Trunk
My life fits in the trunk of a civic
as i slide down this highway
miles pass with minutes
the separation of past and present
a stark reminder of reality
of time space and missed
opportunities it seems that
plans fall through and who’s
to say what comes but may today
be the way to tomorrow
yesterday says hello to memory
and so it goes as we toast to the old
and bring in the new it’s
true i am scared of the future
and you can’t pretend that you don’t
feel the same we all have our
boxes inside our trunks
no one can comprehend but us
so i drive my civic and
take my life from point a to point b
trying to tell myself that somehow
i’ll see where i’m going.
Loitering
Smoke curls from the ashen tip
of a long-lit cigarette on a moonless night
The streetlamp light arcs through the rain
tiny diamonds disappearing to dust
He breathes out death, lungs burning
one more light will make it okay,
further from the end, another hour
for the pain to fade a little.
Smoke disappears like the rain in the
navy air, and yet the cool ice of her eyes
is all the more vivid in his empty mind.
Gas Prices Skyrocket
He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”
She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”
Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a
flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.
Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,
telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.
Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.
On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.
Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,
undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.
Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a
yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.
The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.
Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.
Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.
One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.
To escape your problems you must run far away.
My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.
A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,
a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.
Deja Vu
I’ll make everything up to you, love.
Hands grasping hers, knee against the steering wheel.
The shadow of the steeple blankets them
through the windshield, crossing his heart.
He is Judas, throwing back the silver.
He is not who he was. Neither is she.
And yet they’ve been here before.
The Boy That Never Was
There’s a candle in my window for
the boy who never was.
It flickers just as brightly as
the laughter in his eyes. The warmth
inside his heart is matched by nothing
but the flame, and the tiny drips
of melted wax, intricate as his mind.
The candle burns to mourn this boy,
the one I could have loved.
He may have lived - this boy, indeed.
But mine he never was.
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