bewildered ache

Loss, what a twisted game.

Cried at the glow of midnight's moon in July,
While the sun dried the salt streams after November.
I know I'm not the ideal,
But, darling, is there any more truer than my reverence for your silken-kissed skin?

Remember the velvet sonnets,
where I poured high praises of your voice?
Obvious were my grand words of devotion,
but even poetry could never match your face.

We left the lamp light on, as we were dancing in the window aglow,
Waltzing while our shadows fell back
Along the fears scattered on the floor below.
Our feet stomping, hips swaying to "Lover,"
We were standing and you're a magnetic force of a man.

Your sweater rests in my bedside drawer,
its scent lingers, just like your tears.
Christmas lights deck the walls,
your laughter echoing between them.
My grandfather’s table, full of holiday spheres,
your hands clutching coffee near the fire--
"It's warm and aglow," you said.

I wish I'd come out and play hide and seek,
But when you told them my hidden spot, that made the game bleak.
Funny how games tell so much of a person,
They'll keep scores, tell your right from your wrongs, counting to 10 with your dimmed secret stare.

I found myself on the edge of a cliff,
hurling unspoken daggers,
hoping one might strike deep enough
to make you say, "I’m sorry."
But you only laughed--
a hyena’s grin, sharp and wild--
while I stood there, nothing but a crow.
You tossed me your spare and walked away,
your pockets full, mine still empty.

Author's Note

I'm still finding my way as a writer, to hold my pen and tip it with my most honest ink.