"It's been over a year.
I realize,
eyes playing about on dates
of the calender.
Suddenly thinking
back to a year before,
days exactly 364.
So, less than a year,
by hours. When the
lips that pressed were ours.
When our fingers intertwined,
when we felt each others' bodies,
souls, mind.
So wrong, so forbidden,
it felt right.
Written into passing,
the scripts and screenplay
of night-time stays,
never staying until morning.
Visits,
door left unlocked,
just in case.
Offered, often heard,
only once utilized.
She always said she would.
Eventually.
She did,
softly cooing my name,
pulling me out of my slumber,
and instantly hopping into my bed,
my arms, pulling her close.
My warm bare skin
juxtaposed to her cold clothing.
We soon matched.
There was no lack
of mutual attraction,
no shortage of constant communication,
trips, adventures,
ridiculous confessions
and straight-forward denial.
I denied I did wrong,
to myself.
Who knows how she felt.
All I know
is that she felt good,
she felt like home,
like I belonged.
Longing for her scent,
I still remember
how it drove me wild.
Past-tense,
as she liked to point out.
It's a lie,
there is nothing passed.
Though, once she asked
if she was hurting me.
I, misunderstanding,
replied, 'why, no,
it's my other shoulder
that's broken.'
She grinned,
leaning into my arms,
'no,' she said,
'this. Us.'
It hurt,
seeing her dog I grew to adore
slowly separate us on the couch
a year or so ago.
It hurts still
thinking of some details.
Fond memories,
so vivid, full of her laughter.
Haunted by scorn,
the scorn of several people,
over all that transpired.
You'd think a year
would wash it all away,
but nothing is past-tense.
Hence,
the dreams.
Thoughts I can't deny,
lying that they're gone.
They aren't.
I was told it was trouble,
I was warned.
But still I got in her car,
she got in mine.
She's a phone call away;
I don't have the heart
to dial,
knowing damn well
I'd immediately answer if she called.
Does she read my poetry?
Does she think of me?
Love me like I love her still?
I should have not turned my cheek.
I should have came to her rescue
against canine off-leash.
But I didn't.
And I wish I had.
Instead, all I have
is a book with edits,
another that's a gift
belonging to her,
one of her favorites.
We even shared a quote,
'Never lend a book.'
An act of affection instead,
one of several.
She never said the words,
but she gave me many gifts.
It started with a cold can.
That's how she loved me.
I wish I had realized it
a year or so ago."
these are the gardens that keep us from hiding. under the burning moon you too will see that the stars which fall upon us are nothing more then forgotten dreams living a wishes life. the streak in the wake of its passing made me forget the meaning of its purpose, i hope you do too. someday youll see the happiness left behind, behind your head you store these thoughts. hoping to forget what its like to dream and think and live and love, hate, fear, give and take and shove aside all thats not important. its hard to see the sky when youre looking down, its hard to be happy when theres always a frown. on your face a tear escapes your eye. you quick wipe it away, trying once more to forget what its like to care. but this time of not yourself. you fixate your thoughts on the magic of now. looking up you see ive meant. you see the light, the sun, the moon, the stars and the dreams that were never sent.
In my heart, loneliness is brewing
Winter rain is greeting my backyard
Something from the past is calling
All the thought, memory, seems to fade
You did shed sunlight in my heart
Days by days of my life, I have wasted
Still, I am here, the same man
Empty hand, waiting for its old warmth
A man doesn’t last, but his feelings do
............
took the
breathe train
skyward,
spiraling out,
letting go
of linear time,
a freckled blanket
greets us,
i touch you
in the years
we
missed,
light years away,
within the dreams
of gods.
10:24 PM 7/7/2013
©
.............
In my childhood and teenage
years I had a cousin, which him
and I were like the ocean and
sand, inseparable;
I would share my early poetry
writings with him, he was
actually my first critic!
In our childhood we became
tougher by fighting each other
although I never took too much
pride in fighting, he's a fighter!
He's also an artist who's canvas
paintings at times reflected my
poetry. I remember the time I
wrote a poem after a dream I had.
I was so eager to show him the
poem, I ran to his house, to my
surprise I found him painting on a
canvas.
I gave him my poem to read as I
acknowledge his painting--we both
looked at each other with an 'aw'
because what I had just written he
had painted.
That is when we knew our minds
were connected; this was 20 years
ago, today I hardly see him! Not
that I don't want too, or the time in
our life's doesn't allow, but feel I
am of a nuisance or bother in his
life now.
Yes, I'm wild in nature, but the
more I see him the more distant he
seems, or maybe I am the one who
seems distant, but I have made an
effort to keep close, yet seems so
far in my effort!
I miss my cousin Orlando, the
previous version! Maybe we've
grown to far apart to come close
again! Maybe!
Remember a cousin sometimes
becomes the only brother or sister
who knows you better than most
including your own siblings.
He was a brother to me! Every day I
reminiece on the good ol' days!