Carving the memories of you into poetry.
Yellow paper
with blue lines.
Chicken scratch handwriting.
Big wet blobs
where tears hit like a rainstorm,
crashing against the letters.
Uncrossing the t’s,
smudging the i’s.
Shaking hands crease the poem;
fold it carefully.
Paper airplane.
Hoping the thought of you would vanish,
carried away by the wind.
a white porch swing, a gentle june breeze, and railing shadows like prison bars. ladies with their umbrellas up to protect their perfect skin, arms gripped by gentlemen, strolling past the necktie trees.
days stretching into spun out nights, growing into the glorious devotion that is supper. a glassy-eyed deer with holes in its heart provided by daddy dearest, blessed and devoured with silver forks, blood patted away with mama's finest linen.
retire to the silk sheets made by hands unknown, teeth brushed with tea, so sweet it stings. eyes closed; don't listen to the cicadas scream. a flag outside, frozen in time, waves with our pride, and i waver in mine.
Is a fire truly able to be controlled?
Embers may slow
winds will blow
but power is not in one’s hands-
which sizzle and crack at a single touch to the source.
If the sudden shift from flicker to fire
on it’s own will depends,
Could not the same be said for losing friends?
Souls bind to one another as do books.
Two get placed in an old library
full of splendors and woes
Only a small building;
but the entire world it looks
Hours are spent whispering in all familiar corners.
Every story is learned
they despise each other’s foes.
Singular words weave into shared paragraphs,
as their co-written novel grows.
When time goes on less attention may be paid
Age does not guarantee strength.
Pages yellow and fade,
letters droop until nearly indistinguishable
Making already fragile connections blur.
Wear and tear is vulnerable
small cuts will rip apart with little might.
In this moment the sneaky fire barges in:
One slight fight
and a single spark sets the whole thing alight
Harsh words fan the flames
every little staple
all strokes of glue
Are forgotten as they melt away.
Fire reaches every shelf
dancing without a care in its mind
grabbing anything it can hug its scolding arms around.
Now the victims can no longer visit the place once called home
For the ashes still sit
On the spot they were left alone.
Resolution is not found in that moment
If pain is normal;
Why not own it?
