Silent Love: A Poem

I wrote you a song, and no you cannot hear it.
Poured my feelings into tune because they need an escape,
and no you will not read this.
You are my silent love I say (or sing), not for lack of speaking.
Simply because you cannot love me,
and I cannot tell you that I love you.
I wrote you a song, and no you don’t have to hear it,
The song is for me, filled with the love you cannot take.
You are my silent love, even though you’ll never know it.

Those Little Victories

They are like a treat at the end of the day.
To look back, know that you succeeded
and the ability to smile
places a satisfied petal in your heart.
But is it worth it?
If it is not meant to be, why bother?
Oh well; oh well.
Although several reasons threaten
to count against you,
there is a point
to make the moments you do have
count.

Falling Wave

The feeling is like no other.
Or so he thinks.
It is, in fact, just like the other times
but he thinks every time is the best.
He wants to believe that this moment is perfect, that it should last forever.
He tries to make it last, make it go on.
but
he knows, they know, we all know
that it cannot.
And after it ends, after the peak has passed,
only then does he realize its effect.
But at the time,
all other things don't matter, don't exist--they are eliminated
for these carefree moments.
But it's all like a wave.
After the crest, as it falls, does he understand
what it's done, and what it's doing.
After his slow descent from the top does the knowledge set in.
This awareness enters his mind for the first time
and now
he finally
understands.

Bloom

I have never experienced true silence. My world is one of noise, and even now I can hear my heart beating, my breath rasping on the small blips in my body. I know that the end of sound would be the end of life.

There is a memory I hold, i makes me sick, and slicks my throat. When I remember it I am surprised that I am a healthy and happy human. But I am, at least that’s what my therapist says. The memory isn’t mine, but I have made it so, all the pictures, music videos, and angsty teen stories have melded in my mind with the event. “Fucking Perfect” cusses my computer, making me cry. Why did you slit your wrists love? I would ask her but I can’t, I’m the child. Instead my lips form different words: did you find silence? I can't ask that either. I cried. Was it my right to shed tears? What place do I hold in my mother’s world? A postcard on my birthday, a visit less often than the blue moon. I found myself thankful she wasn’t living here, that I didn’t have to find her. I wasn’t surprised. Now my friend talks of death, and I can’t say the right thing. I was on the wrong side of the slit, and too emotional. I can’t help anyone else, just condemn them. I know they will not come to me now if they need help. I cannot see silence, and it pains me to even admit that it's there.

Light

Bodies and happiness, warmth running from one to the other.
An elation so high I have never yet felt.
Words convey meaning to make it all clear,
but it is emotion that clears the most.
Wonder so strong that words seem silly to contain it,
but still I must try.
So much joy need be expressed.
I want to kiss him, so I do.
Each mouthful and each caress sending us farther and farther into knowing.
This should have been just a summer fling,
but now it is much much more.
I tug my leg against the rope, and teasingly slip my fingers from their keeping.
Turning to him I watch that satisfied smile he has, knowing he is making me happy.
Anything can be said in comfort and peace,
we know, we expect, we enjoy.
There are so many things that can be done.
Inside fulfillment and a glowing content, I look to the sun.
I will not say I am in love,
but I wonder if he can tell?

A Good Love

I will find someone who knows the importance of stories. Someone as beautiful as the strangers who I see on the street. They walk in oblivion of their visceral appearances, vivid colors and stark faces show only interest in their task, their destination.
Yet I think about them and give them a story, one they will never know. I want someone to share this with, someone who can go from kissing me to telling me about the wonders in this world. Taking the everyday and making it all into a pattern.
    Instead here I am, maybe falling in love. This man knows no stories, his vice and grace is in music. While he cannot follow my strange imaginings I cannot keep up with his complex chords and beats. All the things I thought I wanted may be wrong. He surprises and delights me every day, and more and more I am surprised by myself. Did I ever think I could like this? Not one whit. Still, here I am finding a someone. Even if he can’t make stories with me he still enjoys the ride, and when I listen to his music I find it hard to find a difference between the two.