Congratulations.

I just wanted to squeeze her chubby, rosy cheeks and declare,
"Congratulations! You're perfect."
She was. I didn't feel a tinge of jealousy. Not one.
I felt something I couldn't place.
Maybe it was fear.
Whatever it was
caused my breath
to
quicken
and
my
heart
to
race.
I didn't want what she had,
but it bothered me that what she had
never really wanted me.
That was it.
Yes.
Regret.
Wasted
time
and
words.
Much
like
this
poem.



Christina Sawyer (c) 2013

Perhaps, Perhaps.

Shall you count the endless strands
that cascade past my shoulders?
Shall I trace my fingers across
your pale forehead,
down the bridge of your nose,
and over your rosy lips?

Shall you envelop me
in an embrace which
comforts and affirms?
Shall I sit upon your lap
and hum you a tune
I've never heard?

Shall you laugh at all
my subtle habits,
with pale eyes that
seem to see more
than I want you to?
Shall I beg you to sing
just because I adore
your tenor voice?

Perhaps, perhaps.
There is always a chance.
But I'd rather have
friendship
than
lose
to
romance.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2013.

Your Smoke, My Mirrors.

You're holding me back

without saying a word,

grabbing my collar

with no sound to be heard.

I feel your footsteps

as they follow mine.

You're growing closer

as seconds unwind.

I tried to leave you

in the months past,

but I can't shake you.

My mind holds fast.

Cigarettes? Whiskey?

What will it take?

My  soul is desperate 

for some time away.

I don't want to need you.

You're poison. Disease.

I don't want to care,

but to be set free.

Shadows and smoke,

they dance in my hall.

Not sure which is you,

so I run from them all.

To turn back time,

I'd give all of me.

To discover the truth,

I'd cheat and deceive.

Yet in the morning,

I know logic will reign.

'Tis better to lose

than cause me more pain.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012 .