What I Found

In this looking glass,
Smooth, still
No hold for the future or past,
Frozen things, and things naught.
In these moments,
Loudly silent,
Ripe and pitiful,
Dark things, and things taut.
On this wayward road,
Rocky, throughout
Plastered with thought and memory
of hopes and wanton things.
In all this crunch and mire,
sound and fury,
pulling voices and
hopes unhurried.
In these waiting years,
Full up with words,
long and short,
crude and hot.
In all this time,
Looking up,
Looking down,
searching
hoping
Looking all around,
Far and near,
Only to find that my peace,
my peace...
was here.

Jason Christopher Johnson

your hands.

And, sometimes
When they touch me,
It hurts.
Like rough stone,
To a paper thing.
The smell of them.
Filtered smoke,
tobacco things.
And,
Memories oozed out of their tips,
Artifact stones buried inside.

Never holding a flame for me,
No torch to lay down,
Or shudder aside.
And, I cowered underneath them,
weak and longing.
Still, somehow forgotten,
Walking through those chambers,
shouldering no pride,
having no guide.

I knew them once,
Thick and heavy on my face.
My cheeks flushed with the faint
countenance of this
borrowed love.
Rough, unused, and worn out.
torn, jagged edges,
to my softest places,
to the dark, guarded spaces
of me.
from you.

And, still,
I long for your touch,
Knowing I may break,
underneath your hand,
I sit wondering
where is the man
I knew so well,
so long,
so prideful.

And, thinking now,
How I see the backsides of them,
more than feeling
the warmth,
the care,
the sense of your touch.

And, knowing now,
How good it will be to never
feel your touch again,
But,
yearning.
hoping.
praying.
needing.

Jason Christopher Johnson
October, 2011