In Coloratura

In Coloratura




at this moment, huddled in the dark

a snowless winter sky

drifting towards serotonin lulls

I wish I was reading a love poem

written for me.

the pale decay of shared syllables

and sounds, like dust

on an oft-played record

the static of ease

and you would’ve seen me for this simplicity

the hopeful sweeps, where the melancholy sleeps


and they pull together to form

the undulating muscles of laughter.

it is the slow walk, with words in absentia

that steadies the breathing, the gaze into.

a million stars could not power that warmth

don’t let something miniscule

spark the most mammoth of entropies.


if all time exists at the same time,

then why can we stumble all over the world

in such abject states of loneliness?


and I would hear you,

for your ability to judge me,

so much less, than all the voices in my head do.

hear you for your very rhythm.

you would nod,

when I said we could still create light,

even inside a black hole,

while still understanding it might be invisible

whence we retracted into our shells.


that mutual stare into the cosmos

as you read aloud,

words of love in coloratura


One thought on “In Coloratura”

  1. who could write a poem to a poet?
    not i…
    words are too small
    imaginings too wide

    who could write a love poem to a poet?
    those words trickle endlessly
    and dry not i
    not i

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