you cannot stop my thoughts with a dot, Period

Roads

The roads we never touch
The nothings we hold
The whispers we let go
The smoke and fog we forgot to flame
The music we forgot to make
The pieces of Heaven we let slip out of our pockets.
The color we never pushed against the canvas.

The heart we keep and forget it has ever chipped a corner.
We’re everything the light creeps under.
Beneath a moon that never forgot our names.
Crescent shaped hearts after all the lovers.  

Heart shaped like the moon.

The Curtains we forget to close.
The smiles we left behind.

The Mountains We Make

And as we exhale
What has this day done to me.
Living like dreams could only be touched in dreams.
It’s the perfectness, that escapes me when I’m with you.
It’s the weightlessness I feel when you wrap yourself around me.
It’s the sleep that keeps me connected to you.
It’s the sleep we touch each other in.
It’s the dreams you keep inside of me.
It’s the eyes I’m lost in.
It’s the crescent sun and a piece of the moon.
It’s the valleys we see the light through and the beautiful Mountains,
we make.

(Source: blurb.com)

Dawn and Ashes

Above the smoke

The worlds a cigarette. I’m just trying to get some clean air before it burns out and teach you how to fly above the smoke.

enclosing eyes

I don’t get butterflies anymore when she enters the room. The fleeting of flutters, when wings have fallen silent on an empty floor.

Though I still find her beautiful and I get lost in lovely lonely secret memories of her. I see her and there is a rush of the past that snaps back like an echo in the crack of a branch in the Forrest.

I remember her eyes just the way they are now. No new mannerisms. Just these new shoes and I wonder if a man bought these for her. I don’t care because I feel our history out weighs the honeymoon and I’ve seen more sunsets in her eyes to know that I was never looking in the wrong direction. I wish I could lengthen the wick for some chance to lengthen the night. Some nights are never meant to fall asleep as in nights like this and I ask myself. “what if these butterflies opened their eyes.”  

                                                                  

(Source: victorross.com)

Until I’m a Ghost

Like our days were strong. Follow something solid until shadows break against your back. Borrow some life from death and never repay the debt. twist dreams into reality and carry a pail full of weapons suitable to win any war with your heart. Sometimes the softest things can be the hardest to learn. I’ve never had stars in my pocket the dust always seems to settle in the most peculiar places. I’ll be here until I’m a ghost, dust twisted with ashes. 

                                                 

(Source: victorross.com)

A Poem for the Hard Times

When soft eyes have forgotten

a chiseled glance

glass covered love in unbreakable hearts

To long to let go

To strong to let grow

If I could tell you the path of my heart,

but I’ve covered my tracks so long ago not even I know the first

steps to take back

Victor Ross II

Her Smile Cut Me

Her smile was shape like glass when it breaks. A little chipped piece of it got caught in my flesh. My arm just above the bicep. I think it was meant for my neck meant to be quick and painless like cupids arrow. The shards of her smile cut me. Her sharp smile broke off the edge of her mouth. I seem to be caught in the waves. Between storm and peace. Between fire and halo. Between absolute and destiny. My potential and the best of me. I let her smile affect me.

                                                

(Source: victorross.com)

I’ll wait for you under the setting sun, between your skin and shadows. Closer than breathing a cold shadow tried to hold my hand. I let it touch me slightly to fill the chill. It’s when the shadow persisted to stay, that is when night fell into sleep buried itself beneath the ashes of leaves in the garden. The breath that we can’t take and it was you I felt inside the shadow. The innocence we can never gain back. I fell like the wicked sunsets and the clouds that tear against the sky. When the sky rips apart and we melt into the darkest burning stars twisted into the seams. Can you feel our pull our world our orbit, without my presence? A poem molded over my tongue and twisted off the edge my lips. The last of me. What will I become when my poetry runs out? When the poems fade and evaporate from my soul, my body, my blood. Evaporate like your kiss on my lips. I remember every little thing between your skin and the shadows you left behind. The last piece of poetry whispered far enough to be heard yet too soft to echo, she gentle enough to be picked up by the wind and carried to the softest part of the sky. I realized that I will never change or quit. I will continue to love and tell you this in as many breathes and poems as I can write in this lifetime and continue into the lifetime after this lifetime. Think of the language we will speak then after everything we know is bruised and crushed and buried beneath the ashes of burning sunset. and we are risen to the stars and what if we don’t become the brightest stars, and we become the darkest burning ones. I don’t give a fuck as long as I am a piece of the sun with you. The drugs we used to use to keep the world happy fizzled to just the presence of you was enough. One day I will begin to write the last poem ever written in this world because of you. I’ll wait for you by your next breath.

                                                  

(Source: victorross.com)

sun to dreams

She remembers a time when she tasted sweeter lips because I have definitely salted her lips on many nights with tears I should have never let fall. The summer rain forgot to shine. I’ve dulled a moment so often I’m behind. You would think I was in the past how much I’ve been late, yet she waits by the silence for a cold kiss to press against the warmth of her. Trying not to be forgotten, lost, never remembered. She is patient and I am a free bird. Yet my feathers have slowly fallen and shed to the floor, she’s cadged the raven, the hawk, the falcon, the canary that sings blue songs inside of me and still in the night she wishes for me to be that breeze at the end of the tip of her wings to guide her from the sun to … dreams

(Source: victorross.com)