Waiting For Love...

Dropped-

the way a mobile phone is
when its owner releases it mere
inches away from a close, solid
surface and so freefalls to
a possible break or end.

You

were her ‘mobile phone’ weren’t you?
Constantly cradled in the crib
of the palm of her hand, screen
stroked and poked, volume switched
from high to low, buttons pushed

Like

you were her personal remote control…
and you allowed her to watch all of
her favourite channels without
so much as an over-usage toll;
she played with you like

A

girl too young to care for her
toys would play with a doll,
bending you, almost breaking
you, straining you into
stress; you were a mess

Mobile

to her in more ways than one.
She made you vibrate and ring
with preset tones that she
had downloaded, hard-coded in
your bones… Now she wants another

Phone-

one with more functions
and features, an appealing
creature who will replace
you who lays flat, broken and
battered on her living room floor.

It saddens me to think that
if I was a guy
we may never have been friends.

It saddens me to think that
not a single guy
has proven your prejudices wrong.

It saddens me to think that
because of the guys you’ve met or observed,
the mental suit you immediately dress
every other guy in morphs them into pricks
unworthy of a second glance.

It saddens me to think that
you may never allow yourself to experience
the love which you so beautifully write about
yet have so little faith in…

I fell for his lips,
Pale, unkissed, like skin without
Blessing from the sun.

I fell for the blue
Of his eyes, like the vast skies
That separate us;

Their gaze stretching for
Miles upon miles into souls,
Searching for red thread.

I fell for the way
His eyes encompass the love
He shoots from his bow,

Firing arrows with
Hearts for heads at desperate
Targets wanting love.

I fell for his curls,
I fell in love with the man
People call Cupid.

I believe in a love that most people think
No longer exists.
We have watched as two key practices
Toppled over the brink,
Pushed by the hands of Crass and Infidelity,
Weakened by peer-pressure and teenage pregnancy,
Outweighed by the power of money;
Love is now the widow of Chivalry yet still follows Chastity.

I believe in a love that both men
And women no longer have faith in,
The kind of love that shakes you
Right down to your core when
You realise just how vulnerable
Your heart has become, like a deer
On open-ground staring down the
Barrel of a gun, wanting to run but fear makes it unable.

I believe in a love that children of today
Only hear about in stories such as
‘Romeo and Juliet’, two souls intertwined by
The red string of fate that did not fray
In the face of opposition from malicious hearts
Nor did they stray from one another when days remained
Dark; they stayed true to the vow -
‘Until death do us part’.

Indeed, I am old-fashioned in my belief and
A dreamer in addition,
But I will continue to dream of a love that is true
Until the day arrives when that dream comes fruition.

——————
We pay with hollow mornings.

Woken by the absence of
warmth experienced when
reaching out to simply touch, to
feel the special someone that should
be there to make the morning good by
starting it off with a forehead kiss,
but instead the intangible hands
of chilling air massage
the extended arm.
——————
We pay with lonely nights.

The kind spent sprawled
- motionless -
atop cold, unmade bedsheets,
shrouded in silence and darkness,
whilst staring up at the ceiling, the screen
on which memories of precious times
are projected by our minds through
the lenses of eyes that leak
mute tears.
——————
We pay with unfinished conversations.

Those that begin in dreams,
a mixture of recollections and sub-
conscious hopes for the future weaved
into one, allowing a seemingly short moment
of contentment, stretched over the space of slumbering
hours to weaken the grip of desperation knotted
around our hearts and necks, but as the climax
approaches the presence of reality phases
out fantasies and leaves disappointment.
——————
We are refunded with the sound of snoring.

Be it audibly shallow breaths or the
type that sounds like unsuccessful choking,
the joy of having them back within arm’s reach
shadows thoughts of wanting to place a pillow upon
their face, lightly slapping them awake and quickly pretending
to have been asleep, or whispering how much we had
missed them - their nearness, the twinkle in
their eyes, the sensation brought about by the
notes hit in their laughter - into their ears.
——————
We are refunded with pleasing sights.

Hair, tousled from tossing and
turning in the night, looking sexy
or just plain ridiculous; the curve of
smiling lips; the slight differences, coupled
with unchanged features in their appearance, compared
to the mental snapshot taken the day
that they turned on their heel
and paused for a moment
before walking away.
——————
We are refunded without unforeseen complications.

‘If you love someone, set them free.
If they come back, it was meant to be.’
Words previously disbelieved dance to the beat
of our hearts on the dissipating clouds of our minds
and fall, like summer rain, onto cheeks as that special
someone wipes them away with the nub of a thumb,
licks them as though they are droplets
of the purest water, or kisses them
as though they are diamonds.
——————

Missing someone costs us nothing if they return and stay…

Broken hearts know tears all too well,
Her’s has been broken time and time again,
No wonder she’s retreated back into her shell.
Before, you could hear the ocean in the thin walls
Of her tiny shell and smell the salt of lonely seas,
But now you can’t even hear the tide as it falls.

She is scattered,
Like leaves in mid October,
Her frail form frigid.
All of the warmth was stolen
By a boy who masqueraded as a man.
He didn’t appreciate her, nor would he ever.

Her heart is fractured,
Like the bones of accident-prone youths,
Encased in a cast that’s rigid.
The cold - his parting gift, a token -
Penetrated the cast and made its way in.
She didn’t want to feel again… never, never, never.

—————————————————————————-
Normal text: Joaquin (thoughtsofpoetry)
Italics: Me (debzdkwfl)
(My first collab ever xD)

You chucked coal
into the flickering flames
of my love for you,
stirring them up to
an intense, roaring fire
that only managed
to scald me, blackening
the chambers of my heart.

I mistook the product of ‘us’
- opaque, thick fumes - for
incense, thinking that you
were sanctifying me with
your essence
when you were really
showering me in soot;
the type that tortures
lungs with tickles,
inciting a cycle
of coughing and
wheezing until
one craves the need
to simply breathe.

Your fuel was my demise
as you infused my being
with lies, particles
that mounted in the
bottom of my heart like
tar in a smoker’s lungs
and I asked you, ‘Why?’,
to which you immediately
replied, ‘Everything is
more beautiful when
engulfed by darkness
and left to die.’

You lured me in with your light as bait,
mimicking the warmth of the sun,
illuminating my dark surroundings
and causing me to believe that
without you I would not survive,
like human dependency on a true sun.

You were a beacon in the immeasurable
depths of deathly seas, living in days
defined by never-ending night
where there was no escape,
no moon to steer souls
away from avoidable plight.

I should have known that you
were an omen in disguise.
I was so excited by the sight
of a white pearl in this black-fleshed
clam that I ventured to touch you,
to claim your light for myself.

You ate me whole,
spitting out my cracked bones
before searching for others you
could entice like moths to a flame,
and you didn’t even have the courtesy
to let me see your face.

Let’s say that a man is a vase
and a woman is a flower
in this random depiction of
a relationship.

A vase supports a flower,
holding her up like a ballerina,
keeping her from falling - petals first -
onto the cold, hard surface below
that I shall call ‘Breaking Point’
which carries browned petals and leaves
atop its clean, polished veneer.
A flower beautifies a vase by
giving it purpose,
upgrading it from mere well-crafted pottery
to holder of fancied flora,
from not-so-much-rags to not-so-much-riches,
as the two in their fresh exuberance
appeal to onlooking eyes.

Let’s say that water isn’t a third-party participant
but represents the level of give and take
in this random depiction of
a relationship.

A vase needs to be able to hold enough water
to sustain a flower
in as much as a flower needs to be long enough
and flexible enough to reach
a vase’s content without suffering from drought or
without needing to rest its head on
a vase’s curved lips -
effectively suffocating it.

Let’s say that sunlight and wind are not elements of nature
but love and affection and trials and tribulations, respectively,
in this random depiction of
a relationship.

The brighter the sun shines, the more lively a flower
will be with warm water running up against gravity
in the tubes of her stem
as she rests her lush-green body on the body
of a heated vase.
Even in the cold of night,
when a flower reverts to a bud,
the now tepid water keeps her at ease
as a vase insulates
the remaining sentiments of the sun.
Yet some days aren’t so perfect,
yet some days aren’t so sweet,
as the wind will roar and howl and screech
knocking either the flower or the vase
straight off it’s feet
when the push is too much
or the strain of it runs deep
and that day comes when inside a vase
a flower can no longer sleep.

With closed eyes and a hesitant heart
I run trembling fingers across the
Bumps, bruises, and scars
Of your skin
Like it’s Braille, as I am blind,
Truly oblivious, to the many
Stories, monologues, and poems unspoken,
Stamped and etched into
Your bare flesh.

I bite back sobs and restrain tears
That ache for release
As my fingertips roam the landscape of
Your body,
Mentally mapping the marks that seem
To grow deeper on descent and
I can only imagine the dark tales behind them
But I’m scared to let my mind wander,
Halting halfway through,
Only to have you
Grasp my hands, returning my touch
To where I stopped in the story
Of you.

The intimacy of your action,
The bravery of it,
Wanting me to continue,
Is the dynamite to my dam of tears,
Flowing freely down my cheeks
As I read you -
Fresh lacerations wet my fingers,
Jagged, thick scars make my soul weep,
Tender bruises cause my mind to wonder “When?” and “Why?”.

I find your eyes shut when I open mine,
My reading now complete,
I slide my tongue over your scars
And kiss your cuts chronologically
As you shiver against me.
I glance at my hands,
Hands that have glimpsed at your history,
Forming between us a link,
Finding them covered in blood and ink.

She didn’t sing for religion,
Though she was a believer.
She didn’t sing for herself,
Though she had a gift.
She didn’t sing for an audience of many,
But for the sake of one.

With all of her heart
And all of her soul,
She sang for the one
She could no longer hold.
Her lungs filled with air
As her eyes glistened,
Preparing to strip her soul bare
For the one who listened,
But was no longer there.

When Choir Girl was just a girl,
Down with the world and flirting with her own demise,
One said her soul was ‘beautiful’,
Evident in her teary eyes.
He nursed her fragile spirit,
He touched the depths of her soul,
Helping her to find her feet,
Before he, himself, left this world.

She didn’t sing for religion…
She didn’t sing for herself…
She sang for the one who saved her
When she was on her way to hell.