Baking

Add dash of giggle, splash of molasses;
powdered sugar all over our asses.
Throw in boisterous grin,
as he gives me a spin;
cookies would taste grand, but he’s delicious!

Image found via Pinterest, shared in response to Mind and Life Matters’ Limerick Challenge, Taste.

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Free

she was inevitable,
undeniable;
he was drawn into her wake,
a balloon tied to her wrist

he loved her;
she filled his thoughts,
compelled his actions,
stole his heart –
he would do anything for her

he loved her,
and he listened;
he listened,
and instead of drowning,
instead of getting lost in a world
of her pain and fear,
he tried to be the map out of it

he knew her –
so there was no swooping;
he just took hold,
almost imperceptibly,
becoming the truest thing in this world
she could count on,
so that anything she did,
every seemingly trivial thing,
became like everything else she did –
free

-image via Pixabay

Morning

sleepy eyes wake to salmon hue
sneaking between the window shades

inviting feet to follow, out
to savor what the gods have made

billowing cotton stretches the sky
as I breathe in the chilly air

and little paws dance on frosty grass
reluctant to leave his lair

warmth radiates in steamy wafts
from my favorite coffee mug

filled with the best pour-over blend
made for me, the perfect hug

thinking pad and clean white sheets
lay before me, calling me home

I sink to inky depths, welcomed
direction completely unknown

Wood

her heart was hand hewn,
a butchered block of aged wood –
heavy,
weathered,
cracked and dry

it no longer beat;
it only pained her,
its weight a foggy barrier,
keeping distance or closing in –
she wasn’t sure which

all she knew was that it hurt,
its splinters scraping against its walls,
gnashing at the soft tissue,
tearing through

and flooding her chest with dust

-image via Pixabay

Dust

That’s all our history is to you,
isn’t it?
Or, rather, that’s all you hope it is for me.

Scar tissue.

Itchy,
too tight for proper range of motion,
tender,
limiting.

Lasting.

Your mouth says you never meant to hurt me;
I hear your words.
But your actions say something entirely different,
every time.

Because there’s always another time.

You think you’re a knife;
you aim to slice,
deeper, and deeper, still.

But you’re not;
you’re a blunt object.
You hover, in wait,
bludgeoning hard(est) at those who open themselves to you.

You try to take advantage,
to gain trust,
and then trap,
confuse,
mame.

But you’re blunt, after all;
so let’s not mistake you as sharp or keen –
you’re perceptionless,
brusque,
dull.

You’re a one-trick pony.

You’re a bulldozer when a trowel will do,
a hammer when there are no nails.

And there are those of us who are sharper,
keener,
complex,
quicker.

Able.

Sure, you hurt –
but you don’t last.

We are able to leave you in our dust.

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Last Train

marrow’s running dry,
soon, you’ll be left with dust and bone,
who will carry those burdens, then,
when your soul is called to home?

time’s ticking’s creating echoes,
heavy heart holding you still,
you and your loved ones grieving,
yet your feet remain planted here

will you dare lay burdens down?
will you let them inside?
will you allow someone to help carry?
or, will you continue to hide?

the last train will come, no doubt;
it will leave them all behind –
will you find your ticket,
or will you be taken by surprise?

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

There

they slide in beneath the downy white cover,
and she scoots over to him,
snuggling in,
her entire length making contact,
leg draped over his own,
arm resting upon his chest,
her head pillowed onto the crook of his arm,
and her breath a hot rhythm upon his chest

he closes his eyes –
she’s so close,
he isn’t sure where she ends and he begins –
he can hardly believe the warmth of her,
and not just the heat her body permeates,
but the way her presence is this peaceful seed that plants itself deep inside him,
growing and growing,
blossoming from his center,
making him completely aware of the thereness of her

and all he can do,
is hope

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Dare

I dare to close my eyes,
to be still and content,
despite the blackness,
threatening ascent,
almost instantaneously,
feeling rapid descent,
but it’s not black,
where was I sent?
it’s all so bold,
and lines are bent,
in technicolor,
with vivid accent,
non-linear and sharp,
the not-shapes torment,
rippling hues spinning,
a vortex of dissent,
hands and fingers paw at me,
a sea of malcontent,
this sensory kaleidoscope,
I’m overwhelmed, spent,
rapid breath in all blues,
but it’s stuck like cement,
I can’t feel my skin,
is this going to relent?
am I still sleeping?
where have I went?
if this is dreaming,
I don’t give my consent,
bring back the blackness,
this is not what I meant

-image via Pinterest, The end of yesterday by Delira