Plea(se)

I said, "no, no, no"
as I held your hand,
cold like bath tiles
on bare feet.
You couldn't hear me
but it didn't really matter,
I meant it more as a prayer
than an actual command.

he said, "it's okay, okay, okay"
as he grabbed my arm
and promised me things
that were out of his control.
One can't promise peace,
while at the bedside of the dead,
as that soul slips further away
from love, light, and life.

I say, "be quiet, quiet, quiet"
as I contrive a suitable case
to bring before heaven
for the redemption of just one.
See, if my concentration is broken,
maybe He won't hear me,
and my childish pleas will fall
on ears that have turned deaf.

He says, "I hear, hear, hear,
and please, leave this to me".

Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

November

An extended branch 
from a forlorn soul 
hidden in clouds of 
periwinkle tears 
and silent cries 
that reach my heart here, 
down below
where leaves lie lifeless, 
crippled by sharp cold 
injected into each stem, 
and into my very bones. 
An extended hand 
to one who's only ever 
been beaten back 
by palms and fists 
greater than the heavens, 
(or at least in a child's eyes)
and cried elephant tears 
over aches and scars 
that are only seen beneath
thin, thin skin:
an emotionally malnourished babe. 
And it's only when my mother's eyes
shine back at me from the mirror
that I smile in spite of every 
melancholic bone in my body 
and stop sulking long enough 
to let everything I hold onto 
die like those stone cold leaves, 
and blow away, 
far, far away, 
to those pale clouds, 
where sadness abounds, 
leaving only hope, 
to remain.

Cinders

I wonder if the rain knows

about all my saddest days 

before it paints the ground 

with water that evades

the leftover embers 

that burn in the pit of my heart? 

Those coals are only kept alive 

by the frayed ends of a love 

I've yet to lay aside; 

never perfectly mended 

and never sound asleep.

Every time you walk by 

I resurrect memories of days 

that were better than these;

we smiled like children 

and promised more than we ought

in the sun-kissed snow 

and in the confines of silver trees. 

Now this chilly rain escapes my grasp

while a fire hazard brews 

in the depths of my chest. 

I just need a puddle 

big enough to swim in. 

Steelesview

I went there today.
To that little alcove
beside the playground.

It was cold,
and children were playing, laughing,
smiling. Like we would.

I hadn't the time to stop
to soak in each memory
that is held there.

I walked on.

But I remember
that windy night.
We were scared.

Our fears are soaked
into the red bricks
and the heavy doors.

We couldn't defeat them.
And though you held me,
we were blown away in that wind.

I walked on.

Funeral for a Friend

I'm in my Sunday best.

it's raining, 

just like it would 

on an occasion such as this. 

There are no flowers, 

or little candles 

to usher you out,

and no commemorative picture 

of a smiling and eager face. 

There are no sweet poems 

or small speeches, 

no awards, 

no songs, 

just a box. 

Just a hole and some mud

with a shovel at the ready.

And when I look around, 

I don't see anyone else.

It's just you and I my friend, 

like it used to be, 

and though the time is coming 

to tuck you in and cover you up, 

I won't walk away, 

until I'm ready. 

I'm not ready yet. 

Four

Dear Mr. Blue,

This morning I woke up
and you were here,
almost as if you never left,
and you were the same in every way.

Your eyes were drawn back
just like they've always been,
and your words were weak,
like they always will be.

I wanted to hear your words
wanted to look into those eyes,
wanted some sort of understanding
that you have yet to offer me.

This morning I woke up
with month old tears clinging to my cheeks.
I'm mourning you, Mr. Blue.
I'm mourning you.

Yours,

Eleanor

Titleless

You asked me to stop loving you,
Because you didn't want to see the pain in my eyes,
When in reality the pain was always in them.
It's part of my genetic make-up.

You told me to help myself,
Because you can't handle my reliance on you.
You flatter yourself, because in all honesty,
I always knew you were far from a sure thing.

You're the one they laugh about at high school reunions,
Never grew up, failed at everything her hands touched,
And that's not my fault.
Not anymore.

You asked me to stop loving you,
Not because you were concerned about my pain,
But because of your concern for your own conscience.
I guess dead-beats have feelings too. . .

I forgot your name today, and I don't feel bad about it.