May 2018

(retrospection of 9/17/17)

That you would still reach out in the night.
That I would still be that old light.
What games we play for spite’s delight.
That take our breaths in even based flights.
Should I? In these evenings made for rest.
That you, ever molting, in rhyme and zest.
Would in your route of angst confess
Your hand in mine is but a farce at best.
A year passes. Months like rapid eye movements.
That trial of even keels and that marker since
Is my manhood in disarray – such province.
That moves me to write for you tonight.
Those lonely whispers so sullen in the night.
Those half smiles that find so little to mind.
May they find some respite in kind.
The kind that, in our times, may find…
A kiss left unpersued. The kind that you and I
Left on shores unkind to the memories
I swallow each time I write. Each time I,
Reaching out, dream to be.

4/21/18

That you would still reach out in the night. That I would still be that old light. What games we play for spite's delight. That take our breaths in even based flights. Should I? In these evenings made for rest. That you, ever molting, in rhyme and zest. Would in your route of angst confess Your hand in mine is but a farce at best. A year passes. Months like rapid eye movements. That trial of even keels and that marker since Is my manhood in disarray – such province. That moves me to write for you tonight. Those lonely whispers so sullen in the night. Those half smiles that find so little to mind. May they find some respite in kind. The kind that, in our times, may find… A kiss left unpersued. The kind that you and I Left on shores unkind to the memories I swallow each time I write. Each time I, Reaching out, dream to be.

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