Shadows

The wind dances a shadow
of where you once stood
next to me with your teddy eyes,
smiling like a little child.

The dust spins a whisper
of your four letter name,
that used to leave my lips
with the sweetest taste.

The leaves fall in a melody,
to the tune of your last song
that I sang for days and days,
after you taught me how it was sung.

Now the rain paints pictures
of all our still-framed memories
that will never get hung;
they're just rinsed clean away.

It's not for lack of trying,
that you're fading with every second,
but an unforgettable pain
that you injected in my skin.

And the poison mixes and blends
with the water from my heart
until I can only see your shadow,
dancing, in the wind.

Conundrum

Why is it,
that I can hear you stirring
at one in the morning,
when you said you'd be sleeping?
But rather,
you're awake in my mind,
racing about, mad,
with the sense you steal from my heart.
I was told,
to follow my heart,
but to listen to my head,
because the latter deserves more trust,
but you sleepwalk in both.
I am not rid of you.
So I am trapped,
with the conundrum of
figuring us out.
Because we are
a difficult and confusing question,
that I have only ventured to answer,
after failing at everything else.

What are we?

One Day

They sit in the front seat 

after a pleasant evening 

of friendship and laughter, 

as typical as any. 

And on the way home, 

they share hopes for the future, 

and she listens to him dream

while she quietly dreams too. 

His eyes cannot see

through the glaze that covers 

her little brown irises, 

brimming with smiles, 

as she says a quick lie 

to hide a small truth 

that she accidentally let slip. 

Just as well, 

since he hasn't a clue 

that she's hidden things from him 

for what's turned into years now. 

She always meant well, 

and didn't see the point 

in ruining something 

that would never be more.

All her accidental truths 

have become hardly accidental 

because her silenced heart 

is screaming to tell him 

that every time she quiets her mind, 

her thoughts always go back 

yes, her thoughts always go back, 

to him. 

"One day", 

she says to herself 

as she steps out of the car 

and walks to her front door. 

"One day", 

she prays to her God 

as she crawls into bed, 

and gives everything up to the sky.

4am Honesty

I find it painfully funny
that I haven't spoken to you
in weeks now
yet you still have this way
of making me feel worthless.
Just hearing
of every uneven story,
every feeling you lied about,
makes me want to break
all my own rules,
just to raise hell.
But it doesn't make sense,
that this little green monster
lives inside a heart that is set
on moving on,
because I want to move on.
But I remember how we began,
innocently enough,
but your god
just couldn't make it work.
But now,
you seem to be sure
that a slighter,
lesser, shadow of me
(all pride aside, I swear)
is more than enough
for you to initiate something?
For you to use every tactic
and good relationship sense,
that I taught you?


Oh, Please.

Problem

The problem with you 

is you're entirely to close 

for me to make any sort of 

life-altering choice. 

Because the outcomes 

no longer remain with just me, 

but they seep into your story too, 

and there's no undoing that. 

The problem with you 

is that you're terribly too smart

for your own damn good 

and you know it. 

You can understand me 

like others simply can't, 

and I can't decide 

if I hate you or love you for it. 

The problem with me, 

is that I'm entirely to afraid 

of ruining everything I love

because of my own foolish heart. 

The problem with me, 

is that I'm entirely too close 

to you to be objective

and there's no undoing that. 

Flying Conditions

The eye already knew
what the heart was leaning towards, 
and when that desire was beheld, 
the mind could hardly conceive it. 
There had to be secrecy involved, 
because if the mouth found out, 
the tongue would become traitorous, 
and give everything away. 
This inkling, this heart-stir, 
could go one of two ways: 
it could fall like a helpless robin from the nest
or fly away into the warm summer sun
but only in its proper season. 
So the eye is sure to be careful, 
while the heart guards itself, 
and the mind simply decides, 
to keep it's mouth shut
until the spring rain and summer heat
make for the most amiable flying conditions.

Bouquets

Bouquets of lost steps
sit on my night table.
I haven't watered them
in what seems like days now.
They are wilted little impressions
of dry and dusty ground.
I used to walk with you
when we were younger,
and in bloom
but I cut those steps
from the ground
to place in my vase.
I wanted them to sing me to sleep.
Maybe I knew
that you'd eventually stop walking
and wanted to preserve
one small thing before you did.
But even my sunny hope
couldn't stop the truth
from making those steps lost.
Like flowers, dead now.
Steps, dead now.

You're dead now.

Held Up

He's held up 

by what seems to be

his own thoughts. 

Racing and whirring, 

like the wind 

over the flat fields. 

He has choices

but none of them are easy 

either way, things will change. 

She's held up

by what seems to be 

her own fears. 

Rushing and stirring 

her poor little heart, 

like rain on young flowers. 

She has a voice, 

but holds silence, 

because speaking up never worked before. 

They sit side by each 

and say nice things, 

yet all the while 

the things they want to say 

go again, unsaid. 

They're held up. 

Box/Name/Question Mark

I will drudge up 

an old metaphor 

that I've used for months

without telling you, 

to show you exactly 

what has gone on

in this little heart. 

Under a bed

in a box, 

with a padlock 

wrapped in chains, 

is your name

a question mark, 

and everything I feel. 

It's been sitting there

for what has turned into years, 

because I have no idea

what could happen

if I told you about it. 

I just keep that box

under that bed

and wait. 

Maybe one of these days, 

I'll be brave enough to show it to you. 

Extension

Dial tone

in my ear 

droning on 

like a fire alarm. 

Hovering fingers

over numbered buttons

pressing 1, 

because you're long-distance. 

A voice 

asks for an extension 

I stop, shocked 

that I got this far. 

Slam 

goes the phone

back in it's cradle 

back where it belongs. 

I return 

to my bed

to scold myself

for even considering this. 

"If I were stronger", I say. 

But I'm not.