cracks in the linoleum
now yellowed and lifted
from decades of constant traffic—
firm and steady footsteps
that slowed to a snail's pace,
then stopped altogether...
the smell of fresh paint
lingers amidst the echo
of voices long stilled
but never forgotten—
the words a distant memory
yet somehow comforting still
new floors, stairs, and windows
fight to sever the ties
between now and then
eventually compromising,
the warmth of the old
blending into a quiet new
under the four-poster bed
a pair of brown wrinkled,
well-worn shoes
maybe one day...
I'll be able to fill them
Sunset
on steps
as creaky as their old bones
they sit in silence
cups of tea nestled
in work-worn hands that tremble slightly
while a sinking sun
corrals the horizon,
plastering bits of gold and orange
layer upon layer on sleepy clouds
traipsing into a hazy mist
the night air dips lower,
he pulls her close—
her hand slipping into his
she turns a peach-stained face
towards his...
two half-full cups of tea
watch the sun fade away ...alone
Winter Storm
bronzed again
from summer's caustic sun
i pondered how long
before my face
became like moon's,
washed white
with December's snow—
those storms,
that hid her snowflake smiles,
plummeted, lashed at my heart,
filled my soul
with howling sounds
till your scent faded away
in spring i reached
deep into the greenness
searching for your touch
but you were gone—
gone with the wailing wind
that tore you from my grasp
inside thundering clouds;
in the silence
after a storm
i absorbed the mistakes
of a hundred eons...
only to discover
you were never really here
