the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

Maybe it's been written
somewhere in the constitution
     of the waning moon

                                         ― When somebody loves you,
                                               you can never be lonely ―

But, appearances
  to the contrary,
the moon is sometimes blue;

counting stars alone
in a sky full of stars
is just about as lonely
as 'once in a blue moon'
                              can be ―

Like when the night is yours alone
                  or feeling alone
               in a crowded room

hearing Hank Williams moan within your silence
       "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"

                                         ― When it's hard to say
                                               you love someone,..
                                               but it's harder to say
                                               when you don't ―

                • • •

A coyote's pleading howl
breaks the silent twilight engulfing trance
cast by the dappled moonlight;
like there's some kind of lonely madness
    swallowing him whole,..

                     as
    these two hollow eyes
                 gaze out through
                                     the chilly,
                                            sobering
                                                 refreshed
                                                   Autumn air
                                                             ­    spilling
                                                                ­  in through
                                                            the open window,

                                                        ­           counting stars ― alone
                                                           ­             in a sky full of stars

                                                       ­             the crackle of the fireplace
                                                       ­            echoes, startling the silence
                                                         ­                of a feigned warmth
                                                                ­          from the other side
                                                                ­ of an otherwise hollow room

and i feel frayed as a hole in an empty pocket with nothing left to lose

the impending dark winter nights are lonesome
            and  linger longer than before ...
  
seeing the empty space beside me
   I remember how it really really aches to just be ...

                                                            *­lonesome as a blue moon ― *

✩                   ✩                        ✩                                       ­ 
                ✩                   ✩                    ✩                           
✩          ­                                                      ✩
         ­                                                                 ­                                 ☽

moonless ― rivers ... 2017

the trees seemed to peer over us, a story that could begin,
with their leaves falling like autumn
in a country where there was no fall
the wind seemed to give me a little nudge—
in between our laughter i could have told you
i wanted to hold your hand
right when yours brushed mine
i could have asked you to tell me
if you had gotten home safely that night
right there and then i could have told you
that at night i pray for you,
that i always wish we had more time.

the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.

the tides are turning
the seasons are changing
you have carried weight on your shoulders
far too heavy for anyone so young
and the world is spinning
like windmills in the sky
or the arrows of the compass in your hand

but never fret
you are never on your own
when the sky watches over you
and the clouds walk above you
the moon is in awe of your stories
and the sun comes out every morning
to shine on you
the breeze sings a song
for your ears only

and you are never on your own
when the world itself is alive
inside of you.

maybe it was in the way you laughed
and moved
and spoke
that made me realize
i would've done
better than this.