Itemized Intimacy
The lilting, faded outro of a
Melancholy song,
Impressionist paintings
And their dripping, running thoughts,
Movies where those most unliked
Are made to belong,
The song called Chloe
By the man time forgot.
Babies and critters
And Washington air,
The smell of old books
And of young puppy breath;
Christmas lights in the darkness
And dusty armchairs,
Or the beauty I find
In the comfort of death.
Emerald moss growing on
Tall, ancient trees,
Decay in old buildings
With vine covered walls,
Golden moons, silver stars,
Cloudy days with a breeze,
Soft rain in the summer,
Bonfires in fall.
The stillness of graveyards,
The friends that I made:
I recall the peace in
That place I had grown.
So lonely, I hid
In the shadows, and stayed.
But I no longer feel lonely,
For I’m no longer alone.
I think of the places
And all of the things
That make me the happiest
That I can be,
But it all comes to you
The cycle, it brings
New meaning and beauty
When you’re all I can see.
