Nostalgia #2

I am.

Lonely.
I miss the stars above our heads as we dance beside your car, the pale lights reflecting off the river.
Wine.

in your hands I was putty,
I was beautiful.

(wine in a bottle, in your hands, in my pocket,
on our lips)

Red. You loved when i wore red,
loved my red hair,
so I wore red every time we were together,
just to please you, to hear you admire me.
These days red makes me sad, and I only wear
red when I miss you most.

stars.
"you were born on that star", you said,
" and you are lonely, waiting for someone to find
your star".

He found it, dancing in a crowded room,
his hands on my waist,
our faces flushed,
circling around and around...

dizzy. With you.
your lips on mine made me dizzy, but then again,
so did every touch, every breeze that brought your scent;
Sandalwood. Tea. Coffee. Shampoo. hemp.

I miss that scent.

Sitting here with a bottle of wine in front of me,
I wonder where you are,
who you love.
Will I see you again? Will we dance together under the stars,
run to the river in our underwear,
eat avocado off my flat stomach,
swing in the hammock at your parent's house?

Nostalgia

Here are the little things that touch my soul;
a letter from a good friend,
a heart shaped stone polished to a glassy glow,
whispers in the wind.

Here is the street corner where we spoke
on a windy fall day,
when your eyes spoke to me of music,
of laughter and tears, of touches yet received.

Here is the sweater you wore, black now faded to grey.
Holding it in my hands, I can still see it draping your graceful
frame,
see the way it lies in my hands as if still waiting for you.

I am.

Here are the memories I hold dear;
the scent of my newborn brother,
fall leaves lazily drifting to the ground,
the first time lips touch lips tenderly, gently, lovingly.

My body aches to be held again, with hands that
love, hands that know the softness of skin,
hands that memorize each slope and curve and
trace them as if they were the only curves touched

in the history of hands touching.

A Curious Thing, this Thing called Heart.

Here within my heart a disturbance.

And in my head a voice that gently whispers

of things yet to be spoken, of feelings yet discovered.

My heart is a fragile thing,

tender and sheltered behind walls that have been

built brick by brick, with hands that were unkind.

You could break thru those walls, I think,

but how will we ever know?

The lines between you and I are drawn,

but the artist had shaky hands

and the lines twisted off into patterns

that fail to be understood.

There the last of my resolve stands;

with hopeful eyes and arms full with soft child.

A question lingers on the air...

what do you see when you look

at me?