A Match To Propane.

A poem.

 

the words tumble in my head

and, swelling in my chest like a balloon

they claw their way up my throat

until i open my mouth

where they die

when they reach the open air.

 

i’m screaming at myself

my fingernails digging into my palm

my jaw eternally clenched,

afraid.

afraid of the words

that you will likely never hear.

 

you’re within an arm’s reach

so much of the time

so close to me

only a step away,

a breath away,

from total destruction.

 

what a sight it would be

for my words to light the room up

like a match to propane.

the moment it strikes

it’s too late

we’re already in flames.

 

how desperately i long for you.

to burn with you

dancing in a fiery mess.

twin flames in love

without a care

for what burns in our path.

 

i play such a dangerous game,

keeping my cards close

patiently waiting

for a moment in time

when the words will explode

into the universe.

Oh.

A poem.

 

it’s a busy morning.

there’s a cobbled road between us

and with my newspaper in one hand,

and a coffee in the other

i glance up

and meet your gaze.

 

the wind is ruffling your hair.

there’s a cigarette in your hand.

you’re midway through taking a drag

and for a brief moment

when we lock eyes

you pause.

 

and you’re wearing…

blue, mechanic-style overalls?

how strange.

I can see the grease on them

yet you look like a statue of a god

frozen in time.

 

something happens in that moment

that i can’t explain.

the world is frozen

there’s a rushing in my ears

like my brain is struggling

to comprehend what i’m seeing.

 

and then, quite suddenly….

‘oh.’

‘it’s you.’

my mind races.

my heart recognizes you

before my eyes do.

 

and before this very moment

we’ve never met.

but i know who you are.

perhaps in a past life we’ve met before

but it’s only now

that we’re crossing each other’s path again.

 

i need to get to you.

i blink,

taking a step towards you

out onto the cobbled street.

and when i open my eyes

you’re gone.

 

and just like that,

my eyes fly open,

and i wake up.

and somehow i understand.

we are the same souls in this life

as we were in the last.

 

 

 

 

 

Loose Leaves.

A poem.

pour the kettle.

another pot of tea.

it brews slowly,

turning the water murky

little by little

until it is transformed.

 

i watch the spirals form

billowing out from the loose leaves

trapped in the strainer

looking neither solid

nor liquid.

they simply are as they are.

 

the smell of the tea rises.

it is a familiar scent.

it comforts me,

it knows me.

and in my darkest hours

it greets me fondly.

 

when night falls

and the neighborhood dogs grow silent,

there is a moment

where everything seems content…

except me.

i sigh.

 

the dust falls around me

as i settle on the couch.

another sleepless night

with company in the form

of my own shadow

and loose leaves.

 

Cracks In The Curtains.

A poem.

 

blessed are the souls

that hold it all inside

without uttering a cry.

and with hearts steeled over,

patiently they wait

for a better day.

 

and the sun may rise

a thousand times more

before their night

is truly filled with light again,

but they fight anyway,

until the end.

 

they blink away tears,

with eyes that have seen more

than any revolving door.

and they hold their hands out

hoping to help the lost

so they can be found too.

 

and it is them alone

who manage to notice

the small slivers of happiness

in an otherwise dark world,

like the sun shining through the cracks

in the curtains.

 

blessed are the souls

that hold it all inside,

for they are the ones

that we all look toward

in times of need

even when they need us more.