You see.
I reflect on your note,
you composed a while ago.
I tuck it back inside its box
...
Hers are the eyes,
ardent blue and guardian bright.
Disregarding darkness
she watched
...
I attended midnight mass
pissed.
Intentionally, but without purpose,
my hair held back
...
Here are my poems. I don't like that word, but I can't think of a better one. A couple of years ago I began writing for reasons of personal catharsis, but many of these descended into rhyming couplets so I took a break for a short while. I am giving it another go now, let me know what you think. Thanks.)
4.47 Am
You see.
I reflect on your note,
you composed a while ago.
I tuck it back inside its box
under my bed
where it belongs
and I sit and think.
As before the wine clouds my mind.
I saw you I'm sure
through the haze.
You touched me
through the stories you told
of the person you wanted
to be.
And they reached the soul that I was sure I had.
Anyway.
Now it matters
little beyond
nostalgia.
Now that I realise
I am no longer wise beyond my years
which are few.
And neither are you.
Or so I am told.
I know this is true,
but,
I can sit in the dark
and impose the early hours on
the girl I am,
and try,
try to compose
the end.