Thursday, June 05, 2008

when poetry is left unpolished

it was late last night when you stood near the doorway
(my dreams are rarely so vivid.)
and took in the washed-out walls and stained window frames.

your fingers traced the broken silver of the doorknob
and pretended to pick the rusted lock with your nail.
(it would have been comical had you not been so stern.)

(there was something both endearing and cruel in the remembrance.)
they were only moments from my sleep and yet
each movement caused the world to rock in frozen longing.

(you enter my dreams and i can only watch
as you strum the chords of a lost song
i will never find when the sun streams through the curtains)

1 comment:

faye said...

like this one as well. its like someone wrote a poem about what i felt at some point in time.