It’s Not December Anymore

Your good beauty is suffering
on my nightstand. Here, you are
gray sand; a sleeping portrait
framed for mortality, unworthy
of a name.

I miss that one sunset. I gathered you
after the rain;
a bouquet of loose eyes
and tight words. My hair curled
around my face.
I watched you watch the sun
burst around my pupils
and we both wanted…

Then,
you were distinct like
wet leaves crushed under our feet,
like stained lips’ plumb kiss.
Silent admissions were made
under our spirited breath.
I inhaled for
you, exhaled for…

I did you no wrong.

We made storms that carved
time and
broke wind chimes.
I painted your hands over mine,
then erased them.
You gave up.

Since,
seasons have exchanged
heated glances; volcanic disregard
erupted from our mouths, but
there were not words,

and silence could have been generous,
but it was not. Not
to you,
nor to I.

That season has come back and I feel
the sunset waiting,
time has dug a cave in
new clouds.
I am silent no more,
my voice is a proud thunder

I am waiting for you!