The Heart is a Muscle

and the nerves are electric

The heart is a muscle,

and the nerves are electric.

Through this ongoing bustle,

the world skews geometric,

Continue reading “The Heart is a Muscle”

Coffee Table Books

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors

There are more coffee table books

than happy memories

in that place.

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors,

begging those who pass time on the beige couch there

to see, to read,

to look at their shiny, captivating images.

They are a distraction

from the stony silence

that envelops that living room

where very little living is done.

The home was meant to be

a shared abode

but, as fate would have it,

not by the two

who dreamed to drape themselves

in blankets of familiarity

and ease–

Those who thought they would find comfort

in the chest of the other.

One book on the table features pictures of nature,

images of green spring days,

of places to go to be at peace.

On the cover is a blooming clover field,

the type made for rest,

blooming with flowers

that call to the bees.

On the day one moved out,

taking those books on their way,

very little else changed.

The other stayed, as did the couch

as did the silence.

The one left to live there

and to find someone new to share this home with

sometimes still dreams of those clover fields

featured on the nature book cover,

hoping next time won’t be

so luck-less.


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I Think I Might Want More

Way back then, I asked you to stay.

Just know that I am sorry, okay.
I think that perhaps I want more.
It was just days ago I asked you to stay.
Way back then, I desired that most.

The rain didn’t lightly sprinkle; it poured.
And I realized umbrellas just aren’t enough
as the winds all around me snarled and roared.
I wanted a shelter, I wanted a host.

Continue reading “I Think I Might Want More”

Her Aching Thoughts

What do you know about flowers?

“Do you think that flowers know that they’re beautiful?” she asks, in the middle of folding laundry. The bleached white towels stand in contrast to the navy blue comforter on the bed. Her folds are crisp, even, perfect. Her eyes flick up from her work, meet mine, and hold there.

I stand stark still, like prey hoping that its predator will move on. Her eyes continue to pierce into my soul. She will not move on.

“Do you think roses know that they symbolize love or that daisies know that we count their petals to steel ourselves from potential heartbreak?”

The words cling to the air, then expand, filling the whole room with their stifling presence. There’s a moment’s pause as we stand there, eyes locked, surrounding by the agony of her inquiries.

Then she breaks her gaze, looks back down at the towels, and starts to fold once more. “Do you think that when flowers are cut from their plants they know that some of them will end up on top of graves, showing the dead that humans still care?”

“I don’t think so,” I mumble in reply, grabbing a nearby towel and starting to fold, albeit much less expertly than her. “I don’t think so.”

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For A.

How was I supposed to realize?

Even after all these years,
I still find myself thinking about you.

How was I supposed to realize
that the cool touch of your hand in mine
would sear itself into my memory
as if it were the scar
of a thousand icy fires?

Or that your lips that told
of hopes and dreams for a better future–
not just for yourself, but for the whole world–
would be so intoxicating and unforgettable
when pressed against mine?

I have made several mistakes
since that touch, that kiss,
one of which was
letting you go
without an explanation.

Now I am left with the memory
and an apology that seems
too thin, too late, and too quiet
to be of any real benefit
to you.

And I know that everything I said and did
gives you no reason to trust me,
to even listen to me,
but I do have just one question:

Do you still think about me, too?


Photo by Min An from Pexels