Jeff's Poetry, Evidenceofyou.com

Not even in my dreams

 

When the wind blows cool

through the trees

and across the city

I’m reminded of Autumn’s

gold, oranges and reds,

and what sunlight looks like

reflecting off your cinnamon hair

as it falls across your face.

 

A face I know so well

that even in dreams

it does not change.

 

Not one freckle out of place.

 

I’ve loved you all these years

not because, no one else

could move my body

but rather

because it was all

that they could move.

 

I’ve known pale shoulders

and springtime sighs

when passion was new

with hope just a seedling

waiting to be fed.

 

And I’ve been invited

by summer backs,

golden brown

caressed by a heated sun

to wait out the season

in a tangle of blonde hair

and sheets scented with the ocean.

 

I’ve even survived a winter or two

when it was too cold

for any blanket

to warm my frame

or take the edge off

frozen words

tossed at the ego and the heart

to maximize effect.

 

I’ve known some seasons without you,

even loved a few along the way,

but there’s never been a fall moment

when the calendar

slipped between September and October

that I didn’t love you best.

 

Small consolation I suppose

after all I said

and all I left unsaid

when saying it mattered most.

 

Still, when the breeze

gets chilled and icy

and turns the collars up

on all the sidewalk dreamers

as they run from errand to errand,

I start to feel alive.

I feel young, I feel love,

I feel you.

 

But most of all

I feel grateful

that your face has never changed

not even in my dreams.

My name as harmony

 

“Step with me” your eyes said.

“Just walk off the edge,

no one will notice

no one will care.”

 

I did. And no one did.

 

But you didn’t have to ask-

I wasn’t afraid,

of you, or love,

or what anyone might think.

I would have fallen any distance

to land in your dark eyes

and hear my name as harmony

in your whispers

and your sighs.

 

Some things are a given,

still-

I’m glad you didn’t know.

Your “Victor’s” smile

still brings a lift to my soul,

and though adolescence is gone

when I think about it,

I’d swear I could still fly.

In this place

It is in this place,

this tiny room

with the roll top desk

that is covered in scraps of poetry

where I find-

you tend to haunt me the most.

I'm not sure why.

You've never been here.

Yet there are fragments

of moments,

when I'm certain

I can detect

a fading scent

of your shampoo.

Occasionally the radio

will tune you in,

and your voice will echo

the words to a song

that once was ours,

reminding me

that the world,

used to be a softer place.

Part of me gets angry

that you show up

in this place,

and the other part-

wishes you'd never go away.

It's in this place

where the best

and worst of words are found,

but it's in my soul

where yesterday

and the ghost of you

reside.

I should have told you

I thought you didn't know.

I mean, how could you?

I never told you

that I loved her.

Or that her eyes

followed behind me

into dreams.

I thought she'd go away.

I guess you must have too,

or we wouldn't be here today

sitting at the table

with breakfast going cold,

and your mother on her way.

"I'm sorry" seems so trite,

but it's all I have to give

for all I took, and all I left untaken,

collecting dust in albums, frames,

and lying between our sheets.

There should be

a monumental act of contrition,

perhaps a tear,

or a beggars attempt

at one last chance,

but I can't muster the theatrics

even to lessen the sting

of the "I told you so"

your mother has hanging on her tongue.

I should have told you

and then at the very least,

your mother,

would never get a chance to.