Certainly the most and closest to poetry i've written in well over a year. Maybe more. Typing it so that it persists to remind me that I can still do it! We'll see if I end up putting them into something solid at some point.
---
There are a million almost missed moments
in each day with you.
I struggle to catch them before they drop,
scattered by the swinging hands of a constantly ticking clock.
I can almost remember when time moved slowly;
when I had the chance to overindulge in you,
drinking in every single second, each word and whisper,
spoiled by the notion that we would always have
the same luxury.
----
I push past the crowds on the train,
aching to make my escape.
Somedays I come home so laden with the
dampness of my tears,
even my soul feels waterlogged.
---
The crispy crunch of the leaves has already gone--
they've been windbeaten to the ground,
washed into puddles and piles.
They stick to my boots when I splash through
the puddles of the pot-holed parking lots.
Their colors scatter the gutters;
Jackson Pollack might've placed them there,
they spread, clump together on the canvas
of another urban autumn's collapse into winter.
In Ohio, the snow has already begun to fall on quiet barns and
resting horses;
here we are, four weeks from Christmas,
sheltering ourselves from yet another
fifty-three degree evening. Our umbrella guards us
against the gusts edging
in between the buildings.
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