We and Us and I

I am so overwhelmed
with the way I love you
and hate you
and look for you still.
I am overcome with the us
that never was, and the we
that never existed,
and I know that we, and us,
and I will be better off
when I close the door
to this nothing,
and pull the curtains
across the windows
I have left open, just in case.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Mmm of Her

This was previously published on my poetry column on Feminine Collective.

The Mmm of Her

I was convinced she was crazy
and I couldn’t stand the pitch of her voice
but for the way she would say, “Mmmm”
when I told her about the thoughts,
and how they pummelled me darkly.
I liked the Mmmm of her, the way
it brought out the whites of her eyes,
and I wondered as they closed
if they were watching her thoughts
as closely as they watched mine.
And I wished to poke at them,
her thoughts not her eyes,
although I would be lying if I said
I hadn’t thought about poking those too.
I always left feeling less of myself,
like I had left little bits of me with her
and I started to wonder what she did with them,
those pieces of me that lingered in her office.
Did she think of them as hers now?
A project she could shelve
until the mood struck right,
or a maybe a pet, a defiant dog
she coaxed with treats
and whipped into submission;
or perhaps I was a blossom,
force flowered and placed perfectly
in the corner of her office where
she could watch me wither,
in the spot that never sees the sun
just the bite of the cold air pumping
from her ac unit and the whites of her eyes.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

 

Filthy Things

He had a way
of bringing beauty
to the filthiest things,
and I have yet
to be as beautiful
as I was with him.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Autumn Winds and Grey Skies

When autumn winds
have stolen
summer’s last kiss
I will find you
again in my dreams;
over and over past
thousands of Thursdays,
until I can meet you
under grey skies
and flaming trees.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Fancy Meeting You Here

Sometimes the memories become too much,
and I wonder if you have locked me away
as I have you.
And if every now and again I begin kicking
through the walls of your mind,
overwhelming you,
and if I do I wonder if you quietly surrender,
or if you furiously gasp for air
when the regret takes you under, too.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Syllable by Syllable

And sometimes these words,
they save me, but sometimes,
most times, they kill me,
syllable by fucking syllable,
they rip me to shreds.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Waiting For Winter

I remember looking up
when the lock shattered,
watching the tree dropping its leaves,
and I felt disappointment,
and as naked as its branches.
That tree had kept our secrets,
and I think I may have thought that
somehow we would have been hidden now,
from prying eyes and a looming winter.
But the winds had come, and he had gone,
and I found myself in the open, lonely and alone,
breaking bits of memories into my hands
and walking the abandoned road,
until I sat in the spot where
we paid our toll and had been granted passage,
and I waited for winter to come again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Would Run

I feel what you feel,
and I know
what you know,
and in another time
or another place,
on every other plane
of existence, I would run
anywhere with you.

Hard Love

It is a difficult thing,
the knowing and the not,
and the weight of carrying it all.
That we are not of this world
and never have been, but perhaps
we have been placed here
as punishment for living too full
and loving too hard against the softness
of whatever we are made up of.
Maybe it was that hard love
that we made so easy
that brought us here,
to learn to love like them,
with strings attached and angry ultimatums.
But here we are now,
still loving like we did then,
and feeling the fall of it all.
Perhaps we were wrong in the ways
they are right because we were eternal once,
and now these blessed hearts
have been broken and filled and broken again,
and I am afraid that this heart,
that your heart has loved too hard
to ever make it back home again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Another Season

The shadows are making
their way to my door again,
and my stoop has been painted
in grey, but I know that soon
the grey will give way
to the blackness and I will
spend another season crushing
bricks and sprinkling salt
in every corner of my
fragile mind.

© Nicole Lyons 2017