November 9, 2021
 |  26 Comments

Torrential showers,
vanilla honey scent and whispered poems—
when the world’s half asleep
and the clouds dissipate into a thousand pieces,
these are moments when I want to feel again, to recount
grip and sighs and steam.
His mouth is as soft as November fields,
as autumnal gossamer,
as russet tapestries darting across contours and curves;
no matter what I do, I cannot stop thinking,
wheatish skin susceptible to ache that burns inside of him,
sometimes calm like a glass flat sea
and at other wild as windswept trees,
I almost gasp at the intensity of it.

I recognize the feeling,
the disarming allure of fuchsia, of handwritten notes
and soft goodnights— dirt is dirt
but then again so is scent,
arousing everything there is in sight,
I could easily become lost
were it not for image etched into subconscious—
he has that look that tells me everything without him needing
to say a word,
silence exchanged in a heartbeat;
tell me, am I the stranger you always knew you’d find?
Bergamot dew,
humility of evening prayers,
memory is something we feel right there in the moment.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Rocky mountains by Joshua Woroniecki, Unsplash

Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a poem recalling some
specific thing from the past or more generally about what evokes a
memory. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: In the light of other days @dVerse Poets Pub