Reminiscence

Photograph

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

Katrina Kaye

We were captured
black and white,
careless grins
flyaway hair,
back when it was easy
to love
only each other.

Strange how pure
a photograph can be.

If that picture wasn’t
black and white
it would showcase your hair,
red orange
like phoenix feathers,

the straps of green dress
emerald against skin
too white to have ever been
stroked by sunlight.

Instead of all those shades of grey,
you would have been
bright, star shine;
the amber of eyes,
reckless flecks of gold
against locks of flame
surrounding temples;
painted red lips
upon raw teeth
creating a smile too big
to hide the laughter
brimming from throat.

I can’t help but think of the face
I left there.
Smeared smile in
black and white.

The way you looked at me.
The moment
cut
captured.

I was oblivious of your
lashes and longing.
Helpless to the inevitable
fading of photographs.

You were crafted to sparkle.
I was too blinded by
your brilliance to notice
your eyes
only for me.

“Photograph” is previously published in The fall of a Sparrow (2014).

They don’t make memories like that anymore…

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The newness of Saturday morning
still lies upon lips.
Pomegranate and mint leaves
perfume the moment.

A drop of water, steady in suspension,
reflects a smile between girl and boy.

This fickle flash,
malleable as smoke circles in air streams,
revives a remembrance
crisp as coal.

You used to say I was a sketch.
Charcoal pencil rubbing white pages.
Unshaded ribbons
around twisted branches.

Now, with misshapen limbs
I separate east from west,
and pretend not to notice
sooted fingertips against earlobe.

Mislaid images of a morning,
fragmented.

I never told you
how I like my coffee.
Didn’t want you to have that piece of me
spread on bread to satiate appetite.

I prefer you drink me,
let me bitter,
scar taste buds,
embed my essence
deep in your mouth
to tongue
until next we meet.

You look at me,
weary eyes across coffee cups.
Without a word,
call me your champion.
Steal a kiss,
tart to taste.

Leave the flavor of this moment,
imperfect,
unfinished,
for me to savor.

“They don’t make memories like that anymore…”is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).

Safe as Houses

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

You are not my last resort;
I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.

You allow me access to
the far side of your leather chair
and reluctantly gather your grandmother’s
folded quilt and spare pillow from hall closet,
stale and stiff from lack of use.

My intention is not to reclaim
the former comfort of the living room
we once shared, nor reminisce
the passing of a romance which outlasted
its welcome.

It has been a long time
since you have found
my endearments in the form
of wet towels on the floor
or shoes left in the hallways.

But you don’t have to love me anymore
to let me sleep on your couch.

I can cook you breakfast
without imagining your fingers
sulking the lip of my jeans
and I can pretend there
was never a time my body
folded like paper under your fingers
as I sit across the table from you.

We can deny the last two years
of pelting rocks against plaster walls
until they were unable to hold up the home
we painstakingly pieced together.

We can pretend we don’t
remember the full moon we crushed
into a single stone that shone greater
than the sun when held in our cupped hands.

Despite the comfort of the way you
arch your eyebrow and the familiarity
of my name on your tongue,
I know how it will end.

I’ve seen this episode more than once.

It is only for a couple of days
till my feet stand sober,
until I can find a shelter for tired eyes,
a place to boil my water.

Soon we will resume our steps
in opposite directions,

and brick our skeletons
into the wall where their
rattle will eventually
shudder to a bare tremor.

“Safe as Houses” is previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.