Little Things

It starts small.

Little things you forget to do.

The morning kiss

On the forehead as you leave

Out the door.

The roses

Brought just to say

What words always do.

The lingering stare

Across a friend’s

Birthday dinner.

The time spent

In each other’s company

Because you missed him

After a day of work.

The arm across the shoulder

As you take the pet for a walk.

The questioning

After a troubling statement.

The soft spoken hi

Between naked bodies

In a warm bed.

These are the first to go.

Sacrificed to oblivion

As unconsciously done

As when they first formed.

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A Lover of the Night

I couldn’t write
On betrayal,
Or the fact
That I keep clinging
To hope
That keeps bringing
Self esteem to nought.
I have no hope,
In this bed I sleep in,
Nor in these arms
That are weak
With four decades
Of writing,
Nor in this mind
That is frayed with thought
And anxiety,
Nor in this heart
That has been broken
Like countless others.
I have nothing
To offer tomorrow.
Nothing I can see
That allows me
A breath and a smile.
Every one is tainted
With sorrow or guile.
I have no faith
And I know my fate;
So, in both matters,
Hope stands no chance.
Tell me why,
I must bear another day
To the same fight,
When I have always been
A lover of the night?

A body of mist

I ache to write the words
That tell of my heart
Being crushed like a grape
Under your thumb.
(It won't even make good wine.)
Just
some sad story
I'll come to forget in time.

Why and the wheretofores
Shall be forgotten;
But never how you made me feel.
There won't be a need later,
You see,
To save your reputation
And put up a show of platitudes
That betray truth to conceal.

So I ache to write
How I feel –
I am pulled into two…
Love makes me want to dissolve
Into your arms:
My body a mist,
Under a warm blanket.
Pain reminds me of past mistakes
And regrets
And makes me shrink away –
So far –
To the edge of the bed
That I am about to fall
Into a chasm of nothingness.

It's sad to know
All love is the same.
All the lovers are, too.
Because perhaps what you desire
Isn't what they can give you.
Truth remains the same.
So you pull back –
And die a little –
And cover this desire,
Under a blanket of mist
That is now hopeless
And wet.