Sam

Unfocused.

Refocus.

I focus on your little things.

The stroking of my hair

as though it a tapestry with answers.

Your hopeful smiles that curved into a longing flower 

waiting to be watered. 

My lips nurturing yours.

Feeding you sweet milk.

Our sharing of soil

in which we hoped to grow together.

Feel each other's roots intertwine.

As we would have grown into a two way tree.

Reaching for the sun with smiling branches

and leaves with messages

that would float down into

the wind of chance

and the breeze would leave

messages of ourselves

to give hope to others.

 

But instead;

Before enough of our roots touched

when we were only sprouts.

I became infected

Drifting away from you.

From the sun.

Under and over, 

bumping and tearing 

into rocky soul

to the cave

that was warmed by my frustration.

As it shook with my aches for you

and grew sick

of not a sunless life;

but of a life vacant of you.

 

You traced my hands.                  (Once as a comfort.)

Feeling its frail terrain.

As it withered away 

from blizzards of infection.

                                         imperfection

and monsoons of agony

that drowned me in an ocean

of coral reefs that impaled me.

They slowly but surely

growing into me.

Then a baking of my Earth as I

fermented frustration that

burned my atmosphere.

Chocking no longer on an ocean of stumbled words

but dry air of silence

as it suffocates my lungs.

Drying them to perfection,

but withered,

not preserved.

 

You attempted to beckon me

out of my cave.

Back into reality 

and into the sun's warmth.

Having our roots

our lips

touched and feed each other.

 

The infection kept germinating through me,

Knowing it would spread,

I launched myself to space.

Out of harms way

as I froze.

Expanded,

And popped.

All with a fool's smile.

Too much wine, 

not enough wisdom.

 

I felt my last root let go of yours

and after we still

kept our facade of unity 

and hid behind our words.

We both knew we read between the lines.

Not wanting to end;

but with no where to begin.

We burned.

 

Now I lay in the ashes.

Making artworks.

I yearn will one day give

the hopes I aspired our leaves would.

Looking towards the angel 

you left in our ashes

and a false hope that something could grow there again.