Attached are three poems for your consideration: "Red Velvet Familiarity," "Retrospect," and "Home is Where the Heart is." I am a graduate of the writing program at Illinois Wesleyan University, a resident of Chicago, and write freelance in my spare time. Thank you for your consideration.
Red Velvet Familiarity
Lay your head upon the soft
down feathers of my pillow,
and dream of red velvet ribbons with me.
Like the kind I wore in my hair
the night the rain fell
but never quite reached us.
We were untouchable,
hovering in the stillness of the silent moment.
I should have know then
that reacting with such honesty
would only escort us to the scene
we could not return from as one.
Where the hollowed trees hum the mourner’s song
and the path bends at a sharp angle to the left,
your left, not mine.
Nevertheless, of all the pleasures in my life,
nothing was so simple
laying beside me,
in the coolness of the evening,
until the gentle rays of sun
shone on our makeshift bed.
But makeshift was never meant to withstand,
and most dreams
are only a few seconds span.
He melted the snow that year,
with a vigor heart.
Like an eclectic dream
I tore myself away from.
I lost the truth in the discontinuation of time,
somewhere between the suffering trees
and the stained sidewalk.
On that long walk through
the kite runner’s park.
I carry the depth of a lost home around in my
While the scenes of my
continue to repeat:
Like watching that
One late afternoon
just before dark.
Or the party of depravity,
our single dance
in an airless basement.
True feelings exposed
in the rhythm of that moment.
The acceptance of realization
together, in a room alone.
That night the dreamer stopped time
to give us that last flicker
of tenderness devotion.
took my alabaster bones-
The ones encasing
and fractured each piece.
His eyes reside in memory,
revealing themselves just as mine close.
The harmony of his laugh and mine,
the composition of our limbs.
Ultimately, in the company of destiny,
I will fail to remember
and he will no longer reside
in the darkness.
at every ill-fated turn.
Home is where the heart is
This moment extends into the cycle where her family is all that remains
inside the prison of concrete mortar love.
I’m alright, she says. I’m fine, don’t worry,
this isn’t your place anymore.
The heat from the day rises in circles around her head
taking away her dreams.
She’ll never see them again.
Be strong, hold on, he says.
But this isn’t his place anymore.
The sunlight melts away behind the closed drapes.
She doesn’t like to open them lately.
She never liked the glow of natural light anyway.
Harsh brightness hurts the eyes.
I didn’t expect to see you here, she says.
The walls of her room breathe memories and scents of
the world she once thought familiar.
You’re lucky, he says. To have a home you can run to.
But this is not a home,
it’s a prison where the memories rip through
the lining of her skull
and penetrate deep into the darkened core of her essence.
When will you simply leave me alone? She says.
I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.
But this isn’t his place to apologize anymore.
The sunlight remains hidden for hours, but then starts to taunt her again
from that world he disappeared into
where the reality of false dreams lie, and desired hopes
might one day possibly come true.
I hope you understand, he says.
I don’t think you even know me at all, she says.
He chose the beautified life of a successful man
over the smooth sensation of love.
He’s not coming back, she says.
This really isn’t his place anymore.