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[siennapoetry-blog]

A Broken Necklace, a Tattoo on a Tree, And

There was a hair lounging on my couch cushion.

short

red hair

It must have rested there

when his head fell back

against the couch.

I pressed my fingers into

either side of it

and let it go

over the open lips of a trash can.

The hair lounging on my couch cushion?

It must have been waiting there a long time.

[siennapoetry-blog]

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For Rhue

It was late November when I saw you last 

 But the space between your face and mine 

 Was like the summer that we passed 

 In rainstorms 

 Jumping off the Trestle in the dark 

When you were singing songs to me on the railroad tracks 

 And sneaking through the children s park 

 The space between your face and mine 

Was like the summer that we passed 

 And a question that I never asked.

 And you could say it's an opportunity I've missed

That the only girl I've loved seems to be the only one I've never kissed 

But I think that's beautiful It was late November when I saw you last 

And in the space between your face and mine 

Was a question from another time 

There was A fleeting meeting of our two noses   

But what I chose is 

To leave the question floating in the air 

In the space between your face and mine 

Only frosty breath would intertwine 

A sort of purity 

Like late November snow 

With a  surety that you'll always go 

 Because It was November when I saw you last 

 There's a reason so much time has passed 

 Your life is set up far away 

 And even if I could ask you to stay 

I Wouldn't 

 If You're true to you then you couldn't stay 

 If you stayed you wouldn't be the girl I'd never kissed 

 You'd be the girl I'd have no time to miss 

The space between your face and mine 

 Is a question unanswered.

 And that's just fine.

[siennapoetry-blog]

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He said February tree branches

 Criss-crossed against the sky 

 Like cracks in the blue. 

 Something broken. 

 I told him that when I die I want to be nothing but bones left 

 With just a thick enough blanket of dirt that flowers grow out of my eye sockets.  He told me that was fucking weird.  So I told him how the orchards we see out of the windows in our school bus

 Don't look like straight lines unless you look at them from the right angle. 

 I told him I never thought the mountain was so beautiful  Until I climbed a tree

And tried to look through early June branches 

 Nothing broken 

 Nothing visible. 

 He said he never thought the river was art. 

 Not until he saw me fall into it. 

 An attempt at Grace leaping from one rock to another 

On the waters edge 

 And I thought maybe he loves me. 

 But I just love way we looked in late January 

 Climbing a tree to look at the mountain 

 I found that 

 When I could see it 

 It wasn't quite as beautiful as I thought it would be 

 I saw the February branches 

 Crisscrossing against the sky

 Cracks in the blue 

 Something broken.

 Waiting to shatter.