Softer Than Her Own

She drew a line down the edge of his jaw,
fingers played with the wiry grey
covering his scarred chest; her palm rested
on his shoulder, her cheek pressed to hear his heart.

His flesh, warm beneath her touch, was softer
than her own. In fascination, she watched
arousal flush across his body; his
nipples hardened, his breath became shallow

and to her delight – a moan escaped lips
brushed with her kiss. Heady with such power
she allowed her hands to wander slowly,
explored every inch of him with her mouth.

This is what love tastes like, she thought, pausing
to savor the bitter and sweet of him.



French Blue Skies
She recalls French blue skies when cold invades
and being alone is unbearable;
they are her sanctuary in winter.
When he was present, the grey washed away.
Even when distanced by thought, he was still
wrapped inside her heart; she took him with her
to work each morning, to her bed at night.
A silent traveling partner, he shared
the sight of ocean below the plane,
lights atop the Eiffel Tower at dusk,
croissants and dark coffee laced with cream –
the enjoyment of a Paris café.
She journeyed alone thousands of miles,
to find her way back into love again.

Drunk on Each Other
Times I find myself clinging to a life
no longer mine, I end up quietly
crying in the corner of a couch, curled
up, not sure how I reached this point – alone.

My heart hasn’t turned to stone, though I wish
it would when, awake in darkness, I reach
out to touch, find emptiness where I want
to find solid ground, a lifeline. I need
to hold memories at bay. Thinking gives
them life, allows them room to breathe inside me.
I can’t swim through all the tears; again hope
things will change back to what I knew before –
more so than any, drunk on each other –
the two of us were in those brief moments.


Stitching Time

It has been a year since the tear began.
An unraveling at first; the picking
apart of a seam that no one noticed.
Discomfort, uncertain anxiety,
frayed the edges of a relationship.

Unconscious – the rift, the elusive shift
in balance away from the steadiness,
the rhythm of years past – didn’t they see
it coming, did they each ignore the signs?
as if dismissing pain would heal the heart?

How long does it take to heal the injured?
Is it to be measured in years – or less?
Learned behaviors construct a shield of strength –
stitching time together to repair love.


We Bleed

Times we cannot see that which is in front,
we look at the horizon, and wonder
what delights and mysteries wait beyond
its edges, neglect those who stand beside –
or behind – us; they are invisible.

We enter into battle, casualties
of need – of the search for independence.
We bleed for loss – lost love, lost heart and mind –
we bleed not knowing why we even fight;
we bleed for friends and enemies unseen.

The slow erosion of our self becomes
a weapon turned against our flesh and blood;
we feel the helplessness, are powerless
to stop, until it is – almost – too late.

© Siobhan
May 18, 2009

Her Tattoo

Tattooed across her heart, the zipper bleeds
with each pull – and so, he’ll have no more need
to rip apart her chest each time he smiles;
She can take out her heart, hand it to him,
before he asks with his silence (and hers)
without needing the words he used to carve
up the life they had – one he cast aside.

It’ll be easier now – he will not
have to wonder where her heart is; it will
be resting in the palm of his hand, love
lying across his life line and beating
its rhythm, stopping only with the clench
of his fingers around tender muscle.

The needle prick hurts less than this moment.


Heart Ache

Is this pain in her chest heartache or heart
It buckles beneath her breast, stretches
beyond her shoulder to elbow and sinks
in the pit of her stomach. No little
twinge, a heavy throb against ribs, creeping
up along jaw-line and twisting her smile
downward. Contrary to the expected,
it settles deep within her belly – caught
between her desire for its release
and her need to breathe his scent one more time.

Passion she thought dulled to pale memory
snakes between her shoulder blades, puts pressure
between them, seeps throughout her – and she knows
this is a different kind of heart attack.