The poem that won't come

Sitting in a dead room
With a dead noise
In a dead heat
Hoping for a poem that will bring my life to life
Fabricate an illusion that there is momentum
Passion
Love
To wake up to everyday
That I don’t need to listen to dead hums
And sarcastic drones
That mock my life
For what it lacks
And what I have still to gain
So I sit here waiting
For the poem that won’t come

Saying Goodbye to You

I’m going to miss you next year
You know that right?
I hate saying goodbye to summer leaves
And hello to bittersweet colors
That are meant to be rich but turn
A mirroring color of the twanging pain I feel
As I walk away from you
From all of this we have shared
I know this is life
But there has to be more
Than tasting your breath for a second
And then breathing it out through my nostrils
As if it was never there
Why can’t I hold you and me
Together in snow globe
Where the snow would never cease to fall on our delicate faces
And the snowballs that we threw would laugh along
A place where autumn leaves are far from sight

Apology

Your hands are perfect
And your eyes,
They shine
And I know I don’t love you
But I wish that I did
Your body melds in a perfect form
Of which my soul could imbue
Should
If it only felt that way
A touch of the wrist
A kiss of friends
You are mine but far from my lusting
I wish I could build a fairytale for us
I wish I had the heart to
I’m sorry….
It could have been perfect

Coming Home

It was the last few months of the year when people dared to leave their clothes out to dry before winter weather rolled in and gnawed the damp clothes with frostbite. The sky had been heavy all day with black clouds anticipating rain; the weight of their sighs and rumbles pierced frequently by scattered shafts of light rushing down through the heavens.
And there he stands; solitary but a sign that reads ‘bus stop,’ waiting for the taupe vehicle that will take him home.
His whole appearance carries a slightly used and worn expression. His navy collar is starting to reveal white threads, as is the hair growing adjacent to his temples. There are creases forming around the lips and eyes that he gazes at everyday, and everyday refuses to acknowledge. His companion is a duffle bag; an unlikely pair to its owner, which dons a military insignia swollen with pride on a fabric that is barely tattered.
Ten after, fifteen past…the bus should have been here and back by now. He paces back and forth with a sense of measured aggravation and desperate anxiety. He doesn’t walk on the sidewalk cracks. He gives up and moves in the direction that he is bound, determined to make the four miles in a body that should not be walking one.
As he walks he counts his steps, and the air swirls around him in a gentle hum. His shoulders are light and relaxed, but the feet that carry him are heavy. It’s the humidity, or the mien of the sky, but there’s a pressure on his lips that seeps through his skin. His mouth becomes pregnant with the yearn for a kiss.
And she is sitting at the table in her kitchen swirling her finger in the cold tea that she thought she would drink but didn’t. The curtains are stained, and the paint is cracked, and the chair she is sitting in has seen better days. Although the room is a cacophony of neglect, the most forsaken item is the woman. She was beautiful five months ago, but she sits worn and weathered now, her short, bitten nails groping the wood table and her unkempt hair falling past her breasts. Her skin has the vestiges of a once fair face that sparkled with a natural glow, but now the only sparkle lies in the tears moistening the dark half-moons under her eyes. She is reminiscent of the tree in her front yard, lost almost all of its beautiful leaves save for a tenacious few. Her lips bleed.
As he approaches her house he loses count, and as he walks through the gate he doesn’t care that he steps on the cracks. And she doesn’t notice when a delicate knock gave from the door. The finger in her teacup continues to swirl at the rhythmic pace that it has maintained for the past hour. She barely even notices the cry that the latch makes, and the creak of the hinges in their frame as the door staggers open. She remains motionless until he is standing in the threshold gazing into her watery eyes. His own eyes travel down her body, halting at her belly. He approaches cautiously and kneels before her. He touches her rotund stomach with the only hand he has left. His fingers touch her more tenderly than he has ever touched her before; his mouth yields the softest kiss to her flesh. He lingers, tasting the one heartbeat and then the other.
She offered him tea, tea that was now cold, but neither of the two cared. Outside the wind swirled harder, and the rain started to tumble from the sky in gentle bounds. The raindrops gossiped as they hit the concrete walkways and window sills. Inside the room was not filled with petty chatter, but was encircled by love which each gave and received. Together, they bit at their fingernails and drank the lackluster tea. Together was the only word that mattered to them, and together they stayed.