I. Mornings
I hear you,
a distant moan
dusting my ear.
I keep still—
head down,
eyes pressed shut.
My body burdened
knowing nothing keeps you
from me.
II. Afternoons
Your approach slams
the heaviest doors—
windowless rooms shiver.
Your spite funnels
a disquieting chill. Outside
the slow swath of the sickle.
III. Evenings
The ashen whisper of your voice,
the icy peeled finger pressed
against my lips.
Shhh...
a reminder.
An honest mess- A rain cloud affair; Nothing more than clothes in the corner piled high on the chair, Your mouth says a name- doesn’t seem to know mine. Who knows if you’ll ever say what you mean? Mes
What if spilled ink Was nothing more than Dense words compacted On your muddled page? Not a mess to mop up, But a message to sort out. What sort of message Would we find in the Deep recesses of our pe
The ephemeral glow of the sun, rising above the ocean. Light rays reach out, like the hands of a god offering eternal tranquility. Gossamer glaze covering photographs that never do justice to reality.
