Resonate

Does fate have a tin ear?
Can it not hear the dissonance in my heart?
Discordant notes of distrust and hope play
a strange song, eked out when I try to learn a new tune.

New songs are too often flashy, with little to recommend
their shallow message to my ear. Or they're not complex enough
to encourage repeat performances.
Isn't there some resonance-that soaring sound of imperfection
learning transcendence through love, the deep lullaby
designed to soothe my fears and lift my spirits-
waiting to be discovered and cultivated?

I am waiting for the melody, the harmony, the parts that blend
to create a rich fabric of notes composed expressly for
the performance of a lifetime. I stand waiting on a darkened stage,
hoping that the lights will come on, so I can see the conductor
who waits to direct while he's carried along on a chord
so clear it's resonates for several lifetimes.

Contain

That feeling has returned: the one where I feel as though I'm running relay races inside my skin.
It's a breathless sort of reckless sense of being abandoned, a vague panic.
The words I write aren't resonating because there's no one to hear them.
Do I need someone else to exist? No.
But an echo is formed because a sound bounces off a surface, then returns to the one who made it.
I need the deep cleansing breaths of someone who wants to care for me,
who will ruthlessly cut through any danger or threat.
Meaning takes on an added dimension, a wonderful texture when there's
someone to lean against, to be that defense to hide behind, that barrier to break down.
Trite phrases and petty cliches can't wrap themselves around the expansive feelings of loss I am trying to contain.
I'll clamp down hard, making sure they don't escape unless I'm alone.
Even then, I'll try to dismiss them.

Tangible

You read my words, delicate hopes lying between sheets of pent-up passion,
and gave them something tangible to belong to.
You touched my skin with a gossamer force and listened while I
tried to explain the unexplainable.
I existed in the heat, in the buoyant wetness, knowing that it would end.
Now all I have are fragmented images to remember: convergence with perfection, briefly;
and a spicy sweet scent, complex and layered.

Vine

There aren't the words to tell you how I feel.
At least, they're not in my possession.
A sense of space that divides my life from yours
Echoes against the walls you try to tear down.
Vines that were verdant and leafy now choke the sun out.
Why do the vines always grow too quickly?
Prune them with care and their fruit will be more plentiful and sweeter