Pieces Missing

Remember when we used to laugh?
It was all frolick and play,
not a worry under the blue sky.
Now I find myself trapped in an iron maiden of my own neglect.
Counting the seconds, filling the hours, in the dark of night.
Fearful of waking up to find my heart shriveled and old,
though my skin’s still taut and smooth.
Every word I utter falls dead to an empty auditorium,
nobody there to even throw much-welcomed scorn.
I scream with lips gently sealed, waves of grief crash uselessly against them.
No one shall know how deep the void scratches the frayed and tattered remnants of my soul.


What words pour out from this cleaved breast of mine,
that sow such failed seeds of misfortune.
There is no color in the space between my eyes
that can remove this stain of mortification.
Thus I smother my shame in the resolution of God’s grace, illusive as it may be; Their eyes shine not at the sight of me.
The simple truth paints blindness to grievances past.
Perhaps yet, I shall grow a tree called solitude, and learn to bear its fruit.
It shall not find me going hungry for the sustenance of kind words, I’d rather starve.

Memory Of A Tune

A valley of desire runs long and untended between trembling thighs.
Carry my wishes to them with the breath of a unrepentant kiss,
then, maybe, I shall swallow your little gasps; pizzicato notes on our merry old symphony.
Oh, how this smirk -is it yours or mine?- flickers our lovers’ delight.
I’ll be sure to whisper your name, so please, spare a thought for my lonesome;
one day I’ll be sure to remember it.