Empty As A Reed Flute

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You ask me why I no longer write..

How do I write

when I have lost my ability to feel

lost my ability to bleed

to cry

How can I write
when the fountain has run dry

and the inkwell sits secluded.
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How can I write
when all I can do is sit and stare
at a mirror of

all that I am incapable of
in love,

laying an offering at the altar of forgiveness
trying so hard to clean up this mess
of my life.


Of what do I write
when the slate is wiped clean
and the words no longer form.

Of whom do I write
when they all appear like mirages,
smoky images with ghost-like visages.

 ∴

Empty as a reed flute I remain
patiently awaiting the breath of fire.

There is a distant song of longing —
I ache to listen through the mire.

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every day I forgive him

he asked me if I forgave him..
to which I smiled and replied,

yes.
 every day i forgive you

what i did not tell him was
that each morning

and every night
i have to remind myself
to forgive him

i did not tell him
that I didn’t know
our last kiss would be the last

that he hadn’t given me a chance to cherish it
that I didn’t even remember
when it was
or how his lips felt against mine

that i wish I could remember that last kiss
as clearly as I remember the first
beneath that moonlit sky

but I hadn’t known it was the end of us
and it all seems so unfinished

i did not tell him
of how much i miss the gaze
that used to warm my skin like sunshine
but is now hidden behind clouds

or of how I ache for the arms that used to hold me
envelop me
for now,
now my bones feel so cold

I did not tell him
that
it will always hurt to think of him
it will always hurt
to see him smile
at her..
any her..
every her..

and to know that he had seen my heart breaking
right in front of his eyes
that he had known of my prayers to keep him..

and simply watched

and waited

every day
i forgive him

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Linger.

He said,

physical pain leaves no memory

It is the emotional pain that lingers

As if those thoughts have the same touch,

the same impact of her fingers.

It is only the beautiful memories that hurt

reminiscent of promises broken,

and the sweetness of heartfelt whispers

that will never again be spoken.

It only stops hurting when you forget

when those thoughts no longer re-surface

and tearful goodbyes filled with regret

prove she didn’t hurt you on purpose

And on the day you witness

what used to be your happiness

on another face,

you quickly come to realize

that your memories now belong

to the one who’s taken your place.

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Like A Dagger

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when he enters your heart like a dagger
there is no painless way out
snatch it out swiftly or gradually extract it
wavering in the ‘how’ of your needing
there is no means to stop the bleeding
*
when she enters your heart like a bullet
there is no where to escape it
lodged in your rib cage or passing straight through
wavering in the convictions of your hoping
but knowing your heart will surely be broken
*
through vacuous hopes and empty promises
and glances brimming with doubt
one day you realize you’ve been living without
and that salty tears between faltering smiles
do nothing to alleviate the daily trials
*
just as those flowers dry..  dying in their vase
that memory soon becomes a mere  trace
of a figment of someone else’s imagination
a fictitious allegory of some wise man’s creation
until one day you yourself
become that dagger upon the shelf
a bullet shot without an aim
and you enter someone else’s heart
in vain. 

follow the sun (forget him)

sunI will follow the sun until I forget him
until there is not a single trace
until these eyes and fingers
forget the outline of his face

Rising or setting or behind clouds
I will follow the sun’s lead
tolerating the two twilights
as long as it takes to cauterize the bleed

Standing in its scorching heat
it will burn away the pain
sadness falling from the clouds
knowing a rainbow follows the rain

Back into the ocean’s womb I swim
a returning home to my Being
a gestation of evolution
a rebirthing and a freeing

And I will follow the sun until I forget him

 

 

It is not the pain, but the hope, that hurts..

It is not the pain, but the hope, that hurts,
I insisted, thinking I was wise;
as he plucked two twinkling stars from the sky
and placed them in my eyes

My head upon his shoulder lain
he carried me to my resting hour;
climbing the tresses of Ferdowsi’s Rudāba*
he freed me from an imprisoning tower

‘We’ve seen each other’s scars‘, he said
our imperfections seem so perfect’
As I gaze into his fathomless eyes
my heart, in soothing undulation, swept

Carried away on an emerald ocean
within the cadence of my wanting,
the deeper you dive, the less violent the waves‘,
I immerse, the current no longer daunting

First buds break through winter’s frost
ushering the blessed re-birth of spring,
his kiss, a flame, melts the ice in my soul
re-awakening my heart to blossoming.

 

*  Persian lore similar to the story of Rapunzel

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Silence Has A Sound

eyes

These eyes,
they hide
a wall of tears
though it does nothing to quell the flame,
they hide behind
a wall of fears
that echoes the sound of your name.

This heart,
its roads,
its inlets and tributaries
that venture to you
and from you
are stained red from the wine you spilled
though it had no color.

These hands, these arms
as they hold and surround you
though they mean to provide you peaceful solace
they only seem to confound you.

This silence –
this silence though it may be golden
it is not always consent;
mere empty promises that keep me beholden
to words, like a coil that is wound
and wound,
betraying a silence that does indeed
have a sound.