An Unpolished Melancholy

In the distant rise of the choir,
Some stolen salvation slides down creased coattails,
Spectating a chase of eyes and fingers
In the gloss of a guitar, chords broken in places
That felt her back, between a soiree of laces.

Leftovers sorted on the moon cloth,
There’s a thirst for pain, stifled in a buoyant heart,
Until the borrowed white lends me an impaired hindsight,
To mourn this sour broth, with her aged scent in my heart.

Across the span of night, my limbs sway in obscurity,
Grasping at fleeting shadows and loud piano strokes,
Only to fall gasping on unbent knees, beside the bed,
Moments of interrupted light, reaching under my frame
For these words, I shed in cold pulses of breath,
And those smiles I meant, would she ever want them back?

Her hums are written into my songs,
The ones that I dissolve with, in dawn and dusk,
On the bridges, over the water, on the straight roads, in the mirror,
And in the feeble steps passing under her window,
And the curtains, that shall never hide us again.

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