give me time

Dear,

my once upon a dream.

my motivation,

my patience holding

.still.

you know,

I used to have for you a name

but passing through years,

pen to page

there is little that holds quite the same

even the simplest of your hues have changed.

the only thing

that remains-

you’ll be a wonder to me

glowing even if only subtly.

poetry, without words

without warning.

this world is bland,

these days…

they’re Damned. right to hell.

I doubt if I’ll ever find you here.

but I’m closer. Almost ready.

give me time,

someday, for you…I too shall shine,

transfer worlds, love in kind.

just…give me time.

drunk...fumbling vehemently

nine days now,

Scotch, coffee, and toast for breakfast.

Love made us beautiful

love made us ugly

Dear heart,

I still see you here-

a shape so delicate

Indian fleece blanket you bought for our bed

playing chef in the kitchen- bacon and eggs,

coffee over winter’s morning

(open windows, a crisp new cold

how you enjoyed the taste)

Our cabin away from the city

beneath the aspens,

the place where I thought we’d grow old…

one year, ten months, a week, and six days

I’m alone.

Not that this is me asking you to come home..

just. I. I…don’t know.

I …some mornings drive down to that café

you liked so well, and order for two

imagine across from me is you.

( childishly shy blue eyes, freckles,

buried in breakfast)

and this summer…your flowers never bloomed.

so instead, I simply put out our

shot at the photo booth

(one backwards cap, stolen from me

in the frames, worn for two)

told myself instead of roses,

that’d have to do.

But nothing compares to having

                .you.

The fight,

I thought you…

you thought I…never mind

my wheels peeled,

and alone standing I let you cry.

love made us beautiful…

…

but love made me ugly.

Dear heart,

You were right to leave

Now, drunk…fumbling vehemently

I try to find better words than “sorry”

but admittedly

I’m shit. Always have been.

…honestly,

it seems most artists are.

although now and again,

a muse takes the paintbrush from our jar,

and allows us to work if only for a moment with the stars..

Thank you,

-L.

fumbling vehemently: letter on the laptop

Gabe,

my friend…

you were good to me these past few months

and as I’m sure you’re aware

I have no family, no friends

to leave my estate,

 the money from the fictions I’ve written…

they go to you.

Ya’ know…

I still recall that day eight months ago

you rode up crazy on that cruiser

leather bomber like the one

I wore at your age…

 rifle in hand, thought I’d have to shoot.

you skid across the drive, 

got up,

pulled slowly off your helmet

(hands all held high)

fumbling vehemently

asked

if I could teach you writing-

the art of language, words…

some bullshit form…of prose

my friend,

as I’m sure by now you know

I took advantage of your kind ol’ soul.

dying there, under those autumn leaves

I just needed someone to mend to me

When it comes to writing,

all I’ve never known

(basically all I’ve ever told)

what you have heard a thousand times

Love did make us beautiful,

love did make us ugly.

like some woven reverie, or unspoken memory…

(her smiling, roses in the garden

her crying, my old Triumph drivin’)

But boy,

…here’s what I didn’t ever explain-

those stories, the words, language

that brought the romantics to my door…

it was all her doing.

Before her

 I was whiskey drowned, memoir rambling,

You must see

it was Her who wrote me…

My lover, oh the way she shined.

her hand in mine…and then God! how she made me shine.

Those years. They were my best work.

I so feared she would leave.

…and… my friend you have read the rest...

her story clutters itself within those last few attempts.

Gabriel,

you’re a good man,

and a better writer than I ever dreamed to be

(some sort of untapped seed, a redwood tree)

 so son,

don’t make the mistakes I did.

A muse is few and far between

so when you find her

(bare witness:  a woven reverie,

an unspoken memory)

I beg of you,

use the shine she lends

and write her a fantasy

escape…and may you never leave.

(to hell with money, I’ve left you plenty        

as far as writing-those words belong to her anyway)

your friend,

-L.