And then the Frost Came

The clouds drank in ravens
making the pines lucid.
His shadow fell beneath
the sky. If she listened
closely, she could hear
his melodic cadence
delivering soliloquies
adrift on the wind.

He as he was
She as she became
wake. Aware.
Taking color and form.
Both somewhere between
what was there.
What’s not there. (What
was never there)

Someone you think you 
remember and can’t
quite forget.
Lost mail belonging on someone
else’s kitchen table.

The parenthesis enclosed.
No comma, no pauses.
Time takes away. Gone
in an instant particles
of the past.

She stays.
(She can’t stay)

Tired from this slow
burning off of yesterday.
That which was lost (never was)
will not become again.

She always thinks she
see gleams of him,
The one she thought
she knew,
glimpsed and then gone.

The heart can only be
deceived for so long.
The stem decimated,
drowning in crushed rose petals.
No longer powerless
to the storm.

Wind that never really
blew for her.
Easier now to withstand
His presence merely less,
but no longer wholly more.

His shadow falling,
falling into dust.
The only sound she
hears in this moment is her
voice turning into
an early frost.

To every poem there is
a time and season.
Seasons that coagulate
into lost years,
time wasted.

In this one, she scourges
the past with lyrical ease
The breeze no longer
contradicting itself.

Her pen drops ink
of ice, no longer
pointing to the sky.
The view always distorted
anyway. The final chapter
written. She no longer
cares about heart revisions. 

-Tosha Michelle

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The Last of It

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I’m always sure enough of
your rain to walk into it.

I wander, and your downpour
wanders.

You light the way
with laments and oxygen.

By nightfall the wind has
scattered you so that the
stars can peak through.

By dawn, you are the
darkness that has passed
through my eyes.

I see your shadow
stenciled in by the sun.

There’s a translucence
between us, as memories
vaporize, steaming away
the last of the rain.

-Tosha Michelle

The Chill Factor

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I just want a corner to lie
down in.

Pull the covers over
my heart.

Let it get buried in
snow.

Somewhere underground
where the coordinates get lost

A hideout from worry and the
slow burn out of life.

My calendar whited out.
My fingers too cold to hold.
My lips too raw to kiss the end note.

And I can live in the moment
before.

A frozen vessel alone
in the stillness.

My soul encased in a thousand
miles of Arctic air.

-Tosha Michelle

Get Over It?

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Things to Get Over.

1. Hurdles, potholes in the road, stumps. The gap, you refuse to mind. The fact that you aren’t British.
2. Relatives you’ve lost to cancer, old age, depression, and alcoholism.
3. Things that ended in nothingness. The fear of being alone. The aggravation of being together.
4. Stupid love affairs the ones that terrified, and the ones that were filled with happiness The ring kept, or pawned, or thrown in his face. The one who got away. The one you wish had gotten away.
5. Childhood memories of storybooks, catching fireflies,; snow days so bright that the whole world was covered in whiteness. Your imaginary friend, named Tom, who never made fun of your coke bottled glasses, and the way you refuse to look at strangers
6. Suburban life, the ethers of banality,
7. Children growing up and the pain of letting go. The stillness of the house. The quiet you chase around every room
8. The cries for help from those you were able to reach and those you weren’t.
9. Dispossessed possessions. Substance. The absence of substance.
10.The unfound. The unfinished.
11. illusions, delusions. Daydreams. Nightmares.
12. All the seconds, minutes, hours, days, the years that pile up, the past always waiting to hear from you
13. Words that rise and fall. Transparent, sometimes luminous but that will vanish in the end.
14. The crushing reality that not everyone will like your remedy
15. Wasted time. Good intentions that grow tired.

These are a few of the things to get over. However, do we ever really get over things, or do we just learn to go around them?

Perhaps, we should savor the
things to get over. Praise what was. Our past, always there to confess. Bow to
it like a priest. Recall the shifting seasons, hoard the heart’s thorns, what hurts us can also nurture us. Just remember, the past can never be altered. Don’t stumble on your way around it. Listen for the footsteps of the future. Be ready to take its hand when it calls for you.

What good is life if we don’t use it up? Bite hard into the things to get over. It doesn’t matter if you break the skin.. Relish the pain, and then come back to today, to life, and ardently pursue the elixir, living.

-Tosha Michelle

Words, Interrupted

If I write it down
I can’t take it back.
When I’m gone, and
the wind of your world
is still scented with
my verse, what then?

Who will I be to you?
a bittersweet arrangement
of molecules only legible
under certain nostalgic light?
The tug of your heart, of
what might have been?

If your voice fails you
give them my words.
Tell them this is how
she adored me,
with syntax and lyrical sighs,
bleeding emotions.
The wingspan of her poetry.

I dressed you only
in the sun, too far gone
to halt our ending, but still
close enough for you to cling
to the last bit of light.

You’ll find me somewhere
lost between the pages of
your life. Sitting on an
endless porch swing singing
the blue notes.

The language never quite finished.
The language;never quite done.

Tosha Michelle

I Wish

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I’m tired of being love’s
recruit. I want to enlist
in hate

I wish there was a dose
of something that would
make me care less.

I’m tired of doing math, I
forgot a long time ago.

Tonight, I want to get
wrecked and call it
victory.

I want to sleep on the
deathbed of empathy.
and be reborn a cynic.

Instead, I’ll wake
tomorrow. Victory
sinking and thinking
love is as necessary
as a soul patch to
a hipster.

Never content to let
it rest. Always trying
to stitch it and people
back together.

Always a sucker
for Mahler and his
tragedies.

Always in tune with
the birds weeping
in the trees.

Never content to
hide in dark places
with the moon.

Always making
something out of
nothing that
isn’t there.

-Tosha Michelle

Woman Child

I’m the woman who believes in thorns,
the beauty of fallen fruit,
and lavishing love on the lovable
and unlovable.

I’m generous, difficult, and incomplete.

I’m emotional, moody and often demanding

I have spells of sullen iciness,
and moments of hot tea and clarity.

I’m the woman who can only be
of this world for moments at a time.
My soul affixed to solitude
and one darkness after another.
When the lights finally come back on,

I confess I like a warm arm around my waist
and a strong shoulder to rest my chaotic head.
I’m also partial to masculine fingers
that know how to coax my color back,
under silk sheets, with creative words,
and hands of purpose.

I’m often confused. Do I succumb
to the screeching crow
or pay homage to the nightingale?

I’m the woman who would go
anywhere to leave you,
but will beg you to come with me.

When we get there, I’ll fight with you
over the map and then kiss you
on the street.

I’m an expert at backbends.
I practice them every night
under memory’s disco light.
I hide an extra heart under my bed
in a packed suitcase of longing.

I’m the woman waiting for good enough
to be enough. Still, always wanting
more of much. Knowing life, like art,
is what we make it.
We all deserve something more than nothing.

I’m insignificant, and at times insecure.
I’m the broken woman.
cracked, bent. Damaged.
I’m the woman becoming whole,
becoming more me with each new break.

-Tosha Michelle