Updated: Mar 7, 2020
You make words
Like silver drops
In the crevices of an ocean
And poems of old
Cinnamon mingled honey
And in the folds
Of your eyes
Your dreams float
And I watch them.
Are we dancing?
Because it feels like
I’m swaying to the tune
your lips bleed
And I’m hanging
On to your words
As if a thread strung
Between alive
And madness.
A tiny tendril escapes From the yellow -brown stalk Life salvaged from nearly-crumbling-into-the-soil I smile triumphant I think of my mother And her fifty-three pots Of lilies, orchids, roses Even a
I haven’t changed the bedsheets In the seven days since you left The scent of your skin Still lingers Like ocean spray On my hair In the folds of the cloth remain Memories of our entwined limbs, dream
The fire roared Consuming what was once tree And the sap of life drained from the wood made the fire crackle. Everything turned to ashes But the warmth touched our bones does that mean I’ve a bit of t