WordTapestry

Flowers When you are gone,  I will make paper  flowers, and  plant them near all  the things you left  behind.  Slipped beneath the  covers, tucked into  dusty cupboards.  Hidden like secrets  between the pages of  books, placed within  the toes of those  muddy shoes  that you so loved.  And whenever you feel tired, with sore feet and a weary heart, just look back  and let my petals  guide you home.

still heart someday, I  will look at you  with a still heart, my fingers no longer reaching for yours. apart, we will become strangers once more. but for now, let's pretend to be the star-crossed lovers that poets speak of, f or what is more romantic than loving what has already been lost?

dizzy spinning in circles,  tripping feet-- a witless, ditzy fool.   lost my direction  a while ago-- now I don't know  what to do.  which step is right  and on the line?  everything's a blur. two paces forward, three steps back.  I've forgotten  what I'm here to find.  guess I'll go left  and hope for the best,  maybe this time it'll be okay.  and when my head  has cleared, I'll lace up my shoes-- try to find home again.

what remains the pressed flower  you gave me  still sits  within its frame,  but you are out of sight  (and not of mind),  miles and centuries away.  your fingerprints smudge the windows, your gloves sit  beneath my bed.  but I won't clear away  the mess of you,  won't give back  what remains.

Kisses I will blow kisses  into the sky for you.  Among the starlings  they will soar,  day unto night,  beyond what I can see.  I hope they slip  beneath your door  to land, gently, within your reach.  And when you feel alone,  if only for a moment, just hold out your hands,  and let me fill them.

Bottle  I put my heart  in a glass bottle and placed it in  the sea, in hopes it  would touch the sunset,  travel through the  lands that I can't  reach.  Instead, I was captured  by your  welcoming hands, and now my  bottled heart  sleeps on a shelf,  well-dusted and warm,  but it is no longer mine. 

Fighter You have the look  of a fighter, though  you lack the bruised  knuckles and split lips.  High on adrenaline,  you are all bouncing  knees and hangnails  picked ripe and bloody.  Your hands can't stay still,  heartbeat smothered yet  never steady.  Life on the line,  you live in the ring-- but never stop  to take a breather,  because you'd hate to concede.  Tangled hair, bitten nails,  stale feelings, empty shell.  You're a fighter, yes,  that much is true.  But when you clench your fists,  who do you picture?  Is it the crowd? Or is it you?

Mosaic For you,  I made a mosaic  of all my  crumbling pieces.  Am I easier to behold now,  with my sharp parts hidden?  The paint on my skin  flakes and itches, but at least  I've preserved your tender belief --that there are still  beautiful things  left in this world to perceive.