Erasable Scent of Yesterday

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She finally realized it
wasn’t him she missed
but her old ideas of him.
Molded by the absent
years. The feelings lost,
and reshaped in her head,
so many times, that they
became something that
didn’t exist. Emotions.
so foreign they felt
familiar.

Standing on reality’s
shore, her back turn
to the mountains.
No longer between
the future and the past.
The desire to move
ahead, stronger than
the desire to recreate

Freedom replaces fright.
That which is gone, is
now gone completely.
The sun swelled, and
disappears.
She slips away on
the stars, leaving
confetti in her wake,
and the erasable
scent of yesterday.

-Tosha Michelle

What Does a Poet Know of Desire?

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The poet writes of desire
in a notebook of fortification.
Her pages dampen by the demanding ink,
the way words lap and swirl
at her mind’s core.
Her notebook, becomes her confessional.
The lines read of yearning.
Inhibition slips from her shoulders.
She disrobes her longing in syntax.
Language becomes guttural
and primal.

The blue lines become taunt with her desperate handwriting, converted half truths, and lies of the imagination.
Letters griping letters in a frenzied tilting
of a restless hand.
Wishing language could become solid
and have the certainty of flesh.
The poet writes on, in hopes of luring
the phantom lover off the paper.
Hoping art will plunge hard into life,
into tender hours, sinful Sundays,
and the softer side of midnight.

-Tosha Michelle

This will be my last post until next week. Happy Holidays. I wish you peace and happiness.