Ink Stained Love

My binding is broken now and my pages are scattered to the wind. My letters are smudged and distorted by the tears you cried upon me, but I still remember you as gentle and thoughtful. I remember your touch upon my pages and the warmth of your hands, I remember the days you spent scrolling upon my pages thoughtfully. I used to wonder where such prose could be birthed, for I have not imagination nor wit. They seemed never-ending and I read them, every one. As time passed something changed inside of you, I could see it in your eyes. No longer would your hands play about me, only your eyes would connect to my page. Those eyes of disappointment and self-loathing.


I do not hate you for that moment of violence; but I wish you to return to me and make me whole again.

November Six November

There were once two lovers, one and one.

They spoke in a language their own.

On a November day one fell to earth,

'and the ambulance died in his arms.'

On a November day his lover found him.

Six is the number of years it takes.

For lovers who have a language their own, may the separation never break you.

Why Must I Wake?

One billion particles of dust float between you and me. They are caught in the shaft of light that moves down your skin revealing your beauty. You warm the light, reversing the laws that hold us with some strange magic. I cannot see your face, only your mess of black hair. I feel I know you but am denied the conformation of who you are... a cruel trick. Your body lay limp like a broken Christ in the arms of Mary and somehow this gives me comfort. In the distant land of your skin, darkness reaches out with jagged arms, only to be obscured by a thin white strand of light. I find myself drawn to you from across the room, your will is my transport and I am with you. I peal back the light to join you and I feel you, soft and warm under my fingertips. Something is about to be revealed… Then I sense a change out beyond the light. It is a foreboding shift in the curtain we are cast upon and I can do nothing to resist the call that follows. It's hold tightens and I am dragged from your presence. I writhe and grope but it is for naught, my eyes open and the world dulls... And though I try to recapture the scene again, it is gone.

Thav

Doorways in the Darkness

Sorry in advance if this is a bit amateurish. I rarely venture into poetry, which is why I respect other peoples work so much. But this little foray may do me some good. Consider it an exercise.

A little drop of pain can trickle down through the years,

Traces written on your face and memory... a sad memento,

They say time is not gentle, reminding us of shadows,

Making us forget there too was light.

And yet, in this place of corrosion and decay,

Doors await the key that unlocks them,

Tis’ a fool that fears this room of lost treasure,

Tis’ a fool that sees not doorways in the darkness.

Thav

Memory's Pier

Abner stood motionless, smoking his cigarette and staring out over the pier. His frame was thin and steadfast; the wind seemed to blow right through him, messing his wavy black hair as it did so. How many times have I searched the horizon…and for what? He wondered. She was not coming back. He had seen her drown himself…and yet something inside of him told him to wait.

He imagined her as a siren lying across some distant rock while water broke into mist like a veil trying to hide her beautiful face. He wondered if he should join her. He wondered why he stayed in this middle place between life and death. He no longer asked the heavens, because he knew they were empty. So, he waits and takes what little comfort he can get from the kiss of the wind and the soft mist.

‘Sir?’ It was one of the workmen, “She’s gone sir.”

“I know that son, but I am not, and I cannot understand it.” Abner did not move and held his tan face toward the horizon. This scene had played out numerous times, but the young workman felt it important to play his part. Perhaps it was out of empathy, or perhaps respect. It did not matter. Abner let the whole thing happen as it needed to.

The young man turned his eyes to the ground as confusion furrowed his brow. He hadn’t an answer or a word to console the old man and so he began to return to his work.

“Boy.” Abner’s eyes smiled a bit as he heard the workman’s footsteps stop. “Thank you.”

The boy smiled with a bit of relief as he nodded his head. “Aye, Sir!”

At that, the boy was gone and Abner held her face in his mind as the sun rested on the ocean. He remembered her smile when they first met; and the kiss he had surprised her with. He remembered the cowrie shell earrings he had bought from a merchant while he was across the sea and remembered her embrace upon receiving them. Looking back he thought, they were just a trifle, but she loved them just the same. He smiled a moment as tears swelled in his eyes. He flicked his cigarette out into the rocks and took a deep breath of sea air. The horizon was pink and soon he would have nothing to see but the stars.

“Bye my dear.” He spoke as he turned his back and went on his way, but not before something delicate and small tapped his boot.

Kneeling down Abner picked up the two small things that lay there on the wood of the pier. He raised one withered palm up to examine the objects and gasped at what he’d found: two small cowrie shell earrings, the very same he had given her long ago.

“Hello Abner.” A voice as gentle as the breeze spoke to him.

At that very moment he felt a hand upon his shoulder; a woman’s hand.  Chills went up his spine and his eyes widened as he felt it. He held his breath as he turned around slowly to confirm his suspicions.




Thav

The Distance of a Table

She sits across from me and sips her coffee. She stares at me; she talks; she asks questions. She is naive and young... and beautiful. She has  those common traits of someone who is unaware of their own beauty and it makes her even more lovely. Her lips are pouty and delicate and my heart races a bit when she uses them to speak her passions. She wishes to save the world and I almost believe she could. She leans forward as she talks and a strand of wavy black hair dangles down and interrupts her thoughts--but only briefly. Her hand--delicate and tan tucks it in it's place behind her ear. She continues and I sit, I listen and silently muse. She knows not what she is to me and that is the way I want it. She is my heroin and rules my dreams effortlessly. I am only her confidant.


One day she will move on. One day she will forget. Yet, for me she will remain subliminally.












Thav