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Somewhere in the attic, amidst cobwebs and old comic books, a memory box secrets away, capsuling the early years with trinkets and birthday cards, high school essays and sepia photographs, fledgling journals and overlooked poetry, each item conserved in the belief that memories, like skin-deep scars, fade into the forgetting, lost in the confines of a fickle mind, diluted with experience and the weight of too many memories, each etched with ephemeral sigils of a magic long forgotten, pixie dust collecting with the passing of time. And somewhere in that box, trapped between yellowing love letters and the redolence of my perfume

The wounds you left behind, the ones we both inflicted on tender hearts too young to know the difference, reassert themselves like burns exposed to air, blistering with the pain of a thousand suns burning behind swollen eyes where memories tear holes in our cracking visage. Image: http://deviantwriter2.blogspot.com/2016/08/the-wounds-you-left-behind.html

I soak my soul in the depths of you, inkblots tracing your steadfast love in the fading light of undying beauty even as predestined tears irreverently commingle with inevitable forgetting Image: http://artecubano.deviantart.com/art/olvido-forgetfulness-104126084

I am unique in that I poetize, an augur of words and phrases chafed by worldly seashores littered with the incredulous searching for treasure with faulty metal detectors; a voiceless oracle lost amidst the incense of liars twisting the magic of my words with wands of their own; a seer of truth lost and forgotten in the Lethe of disbelief where my words slip into nothingness, but unique in the rhythms of my verse Image: http://annemckinnell.com/2012/02/17/the-seashells-of-sanibel/

Incantations to a partisan God rise up from the speech of angels that worship with honeyed lips and stolen words usurped from the lyrics of my music, my melodic heartbeat pumping blood into the rites of their innate desire to be loved by the Maker who loves me with redemption but holds no fondness for the ethereal of their existence, so they plunder my words with flaming swords, branding the rhythms of my music upon the radiant glow of their wings. Image: http://lostknightkg.deviantart.com/art/Angel-of-Temperance-370021556

When the light of the streetlamp touched your face like a halo tipping over your head, you smiled despite the darkness that swallowed us whole as if the flame of your desire could keep the shadows of doubt at bay even as our hearts bled into each other's palms.   I wanted to believe you so badly that my knees buckled beneath your stubborn resolve and I gave you what little I had like a mendicant offering alms to a beggar.   But I did believe you, then, like a flower believes the bee is interested in more than just her pollen, and I opened my petals to your buzzing knowing full well that I was neither a flower nor you a bee.  

I had once written a love poem and hid it in my breast pocket close to the beating heart that had breathed life into it, behind other paper notes and useless receipts that meant nothing to me except to conceal the love growing in those lines of poetry on the thin filament of paper opened and folded closed so many times that the creases sighed your name each time I peeked at the words. But then I changed. Something happened between washing the sins of my past from guilty hands and folding them into neat piles on the floor of a broken heart where the treasured poem lost its luster, the creases indelibly ripped between love words that h

Somewhere inside of you, where fire dwells in crystal urns and the sands of time condense, the real you still breathes, full of laughter and tears and rage and kindness, not to be forgotten in the hollow clink of golden anklets jingling in the wake of your departing, but still you love me as I love you so that while our lives may dwell in the silence of our existence, we will always be two people who fell in love under a streetlight and sang together in the dark. Image: http://blackjack0919.deviantart.com/art/The-Fire-Within-161027841

Yesterday I wrote a song, lyrics descending from the proverbial heavens like fallen angels leaving trails of star dust in their impending wakes, the unruly words speaking of undying devotion in the fading light of love, and I begged to not be forgotten in your haste to move on and disappear into the secure background of acquiescence, wishing my days to be filled with thoughts of you for every star in the sky, dispelling the fear that I never cross your mind. And yet today, for the life of me, I couldn't remember the rhyming words that sang to you from the backseat of yesterday's heartbreak. http://crystalshock.deviantart.com/art/Angel-of-t

She lays upon the rock, an image of folklore and temptress strewn upon splashing waves and mossy curvatures, now flirting with the moon as she bats pelagic eyelashes with the ambience of a sea- loving seductress; long, tousled hair flowing in the midnight breeze like seaweed dancing beneath the surface of a dark ocean that longs for his beloved mistress as she basks in the caresses of a moonlit sky. Image: http://marcobusoni.deviantart.com/art/A-mermaid-in-the-sunset-100239147