A Shelf Behind

I have a hard time with waiting. As if every single act has an ideal instance of action, and they all land on the back burner until the moment shows itself. In subsequent truth, I now own a vast shelf of ignored ideas and trials, passed their prime, missed out on, lost in their own space just to fill a corner of future conversation where I once had a thought and lost it to a whim. Each moment itself a ghost of my former face in a former time and former place, left and left forever; only for me to visit in regret and faded contemplation of glory days that never quite made it. I get so lost in my mind, the last to pull a thread, the anxious awe my name, I’ve lived in vivid waves.

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For Left Behind

What I’m finding out…
is everything I’ve pushed aside
just wasn’t meant for left behind.
And conversations find me reeling
where the pieces all face out.
I’m breatheless all my days,
and bleeding out of time.

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Strange Enough

Days like this, I come to places like this
and just to sit, just to watch.

Take a seat a seat at the strangest table
and watch the strangest lives surround.

Strange enough to love, but only as an adjective.
Strange enough to still-life in a frame that isn’t mine.

Leave a seat here open, pulled aside a bit.
A lasting invitation, and a friendliest decline.

These days all play like B-sides…an afterthought,
post-everything and undefined.

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Anchored In

These memories are ashes
of long gone fire lies.
Where their faces fell,
I settled in the dust.
I’ve anchored in so tightly,
and days forget to trust.

It’s her and I together here,
our lines full bold abroad.
The ghosts are closing on me,
with a backlit fear of old.
These thoughts are not my own.

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Where We Meet

Sit with me where the sky and the streetlights meet.
Two lines intersect in the moment our stories speak.
Tangled fingers in our tangled space, hanging,
freely in all the times we’d wait.

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Love Lost In A Fire

Where are you now,
but tinder and smoke.

Forty floors of orange,
and the ash of the earth.

Love lost in a fire,
long beneath the crust.

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In Gardens

Not all that follows are ghosts. We live clumsily among the garden of our past, and though we move, fatefully forward, any seconds stumble sends us back. That song, alive, the sound of longing now, the sound of laughter so. Smiles stretching back, tears we’re holding back, a love for reaching back. Forever is only times we’ve strung together.

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