Indirect

This piece is written a little differently from my usual banter. I suppose I am trying something on for a while.

I missed you today

especially

when I could hear the wind

whipping wildly outside my window

where you would hear the wind

against the ocean swells

where you would be kissed

by the spray and mist

and serenaded by gentle noise

when I listen to folk

and banjos

and fiddlers

like Oliver

I think of

Echo

Alpha

Sierra

Tango.

I miss you whenever

I read lush

Prose. You always spoke with

Soothing eloquence. Your words were

Butter and chocolate, so rich

In verbose you were

Where I was not.

In speech I fumbled always

In script I was a little less dizzy

You were certainly

Poised in both.

T.DM

A Window With A View

Do I look upon a wintry night?

From a window with a view?

From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,

All snuggled up in wool, and wear?

Or do I look upon a wintry night

From a rooftop high in the city’s core?

Leaning against a chimney with sniffles

Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?

Surely I am bound to see more stars

With the sky as my canvasing frame

rather than if I were looking through layers

of glass and window pane,

for what is a perfect night

behind a wall?

Nothing but vicarious meandering

And wishful thinking,

No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks

To conjure the season’s spirits,

What a shame to let the

frost dissipate in that way.

 

T. DM

Selfish

Does it feel like punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

and withering

till the early morning?

though the dawn singes them closed

and adheres them to one another

you still put up a front

with seething, gloating

cornerstones of whatever you expect

to come around,

really, it should always feel like

punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

or when you submit them to shut out

the day like you have always done

 

how can you be so impossible?

 

T. DM