Call WitnessI sit back againstThe doorframeBetween the kitchen andOur breakfast nook.Sunlight is streaming inThrough bay windows,Throwing dappled patternsAcross your delicate shoulders.A steaming mug of Earl Gray teaSits steeping in the silenceThat hangs heavy as a fog between us.Your nails, pearl pink likeThe insides of seashells.Tap a restless staccato rhythmAgainst your paperback novel.It is the day before yourMother’s funeral.And you, her daughter,Are contemplating the ashes left overAfter you witnessed the house burning down.Your head is bowed,And your hands are claspedRespectfully in your lap.Dark smudges underneath your eyesTell me that sleep has beenEvading you.
Paris Lights“The City of Love.”As it is often referred to,Can sometimes be as lonelyAs a mate-less swan.Raindrops gently fall,Caressing windows glass,To finally fall and join thousandsOf tears in La Seine. “The City of Love.”Is what postcards proclaimParis to be.Yet, there is no handsome youngMonsieur clinging to my every sentence.No taboo romantic kiss underneath Paris’ lights.There is only I.Singular, not plural.With an empty heart.
English RoseA pressed blue sundress adores your body.You are as delicate as the china tea cup before you,Painted with purple and yellow pansies.Your hand cups a flawless chin,Perhaps you are contemplatingWhat shade of blue the sky is today.Or listening to the pitter-patter of raindropsSplashing against sun-baked cobblestones.But it is what lays tucked under the teacups saucerThat explains your almost wistful expression.A small stack of letters tied together with twineIs just to the left of your teacup.Maybe the reason for the downward tilt of your chin,And the slight pout of red lipsLies in the empty seat across from you.You are contemplating the lack of love in your life.I can observe it in the way your eyes glide over handsome mens physiques.You are the single red rose in a garden of weeds.
A Black HeartYou are so beautifulThat it almost breaksMy heart.As people pass us by,I can only hope thatThey have caught a glimpseOf what lays within.An angel carved fromThe finest alabaster,But your heart is blackAnd cold;Winter’s chilling graspThat creeps around ourHearts,Suffocation.You are so beautiful,My dear.I gaze upon youAs if you had goneAnd hung the stars.It is a sure possibility.But the inside cavities ofYour chest are plagued withMurderous thoughts.Is that blood on your hands, beloved?You are so beautiful,Murderous.With a heart of stone,And a thirst for blood thatCould chill any heart.
Baby BirdYour heart has packed its bags.Luggage sitting beside the door,Coat and scarf gone from the coat rack.It is time to say goodbye,But his heart is wounded.It is the bird with a broken legThat we found in the forest just yesterday.He saidWe should take it home and nurse itBack to health.The inside cavities of his heart acting on impulse.But she had become disoriented in where they stood,And the soft kisses that he pressed into her backFelt more like licks of flames than a token of love.So she packed away her heart,And responded to him,Trying not toBreak the one thingShe had loved most."It will die anyway."
Significance Of YouPieces of youAre still here residingUnderneath my personalPerception of reality.The way you took your coffeeIs still ingrained in my mind.As is your God-awful shower singing,But I think it all just made meLove you more.You would dog-ear brand new books,And I would say that you were ruining them.But you always smiledAnd said that you wereGiving it some character.You always had to have peppermint teaWhile reading a book,And I thought you were the world to me.Pieces of youStill appear in my memory.The way you would chew theEnds off of all of our pens untilI had to go out to the store and buy new ones,But I didn’t mind,Because you were the earthAnd I was your moon.Pulled to you in every sense of the word.