Unsure

Not sure where we slipped into the pain,
How we fought to hurt each other,
And, started playing the blame game.
I'll never know when the trusts died,
What made the walls go up,
Straight and tall and fortified,
With hurt and neglect.
I can't remember when you stopped,
Fighting for the you
That you used to be,
Nor the we
That we used to be.

Jason Christopher Johnson
September 1, 2014
October 25, 2015

Legend.

It took days
to open blinds
to face the sun
or walk before
any mirrored thing.

It took weeks
to speak,
to talk with others.
all I could hear were
the first whispers
then the maddening
screams,
and unraveling
of  our sacred thing.

We didn't raise white flags,
no branches
stretched out for the
sake of peace,
or ease,
or anything resembling
some distant part
of heaven.
in came the storms and
out went the legend.

It took months
to find a smile again,
though, faint,
whimsical
like a late night autumnal wind,
fleeting.
to find joy on this side of hell,
without you here,
without the touch of you near,
no smile to beat out the dark,
no peace to fight the fear.

It took years
to even know
that I was alive,
still here.
Even after all the relics had gone
away,
packed into boxes
with happiness
stuffed neath old shirts
and empty frames
dusty with
the filth and stench
of all the times
we raised
fists.
fists to fuck
fists to fight,
the coldness of all
the nights
we slept back to back.

Years to
repair my mind's eye
to see anything pleasant,
to know that you were really gone
and so was our
legend.

Jason Christopher Johnson
October 24, 2015

two, too broken.

the resigned profile
of a once strong jawline.
a smile that life removed.
eyes, no longer the hue of blue
sad eyes
full up with hurt
screaming
a story, untold
a song with no tune
a dirge without music
a night sky, with no moon.

like the remnants of some
once strong, walled city
existing, now, only in ruin
returned to earth, in dust
in cinders and ash
only grays and black.

the sloped shoulders
of a defeated warrior
sword resting, morose,
by his side
giving up the fight
raising up flags of white,
to life
to you
to the blue.

sitting, buried in the words
of some old book
inhaling the smell of the
old pages
stale,
and smelling, somehow, of freshly cut
grass
and years of dust and neglect.

an almost too bitter latte
by my side
words blurring into sentences
into pages
into glances toward you
toward that weakened profile
waiting
hoping for some semblance of a smile
while you tentatively sipped
on ginger tea
with a distinct delicacy
that made you appear
less hapless
more sad
less futile
more romantic,
than someone
knew how to care for

standing to re-position
with the tension
of a back tight
from sitting, reading
for hours in a rigid,
unyielding hardwood chair
with hope and future regret
lingering in the air.

stepping toward you,
with my similar, unsure
shoulders
a mouth filled with a boulder
a rare surety in my gait
a flutter in my heart
a signal in my mind to stop, to wait.

aside from my open glances to you
and those you returned to me
beyond my innocent hoping,
came a realization that we were
two, too broken.

Jason Christopher Johnson
October 17, 2015

one thousand and one goodbyes.

The tea gets cold,
wines get old.
They falter
beyond repair
And, life becomes listless
without you there.
The words do not come
like they used to.
The fear has settled in
with hungry eyes
as I clamor to find the strength
for another goodbye.

The winds
bring no comfort,
brittle and foreign
used and cold
humid, dank...
old.
Mornings don't shine bright,
and, days float
aimlessly
adrift
a vessel
lost at sea.
Regret comes in,
Dancing around with glee
and pride
as I strain for the nerve
for another goodbye.

Southern springs
bring foliage and
flowers
and fruits
without care.
A slight thickness
settles about the arid air.
And, sweet things,
turn bitter
not worthy of tastes
and life casts abandon
to will,
and to fates.
Trust dances outside my reach,
just outside the view of my eye
as I pray, simply,
to not say
another goodbye.

And,
sands become warm,
resolves are formed,
warmth settles around,
a distinct King
with no crown,
a priest of nothing,
a spring, here,
with no fair or fling.
Eyes, open
Hearts, reach
Minds, solve
Hands, feel
Ears, hear
Tongues, speak
Heads, bow
and,
Feet, rise
under the presence of
yet another goodbye.

Jason Christopher Johnson
April 30, 2015

For fear of the summer year.

And, winter moved
thickly like the haunt of molasses,
a slow, faint tempo underneath
gray/scale covers,
bitter snow and slush.
Frigid air.
And, I moved
slowly, away from mirrors and toward
darkness...
The weight of  missing you
heavy on my hands,
my heart,
Like the crushing ruin of Pompeii.
The want and lust to move on,
but not finding the way.
And, winter,
still here
while I thought she had gone,
with
only lingering melodies of
your song.
Here, but not.
Full up, but empty
throughout.
And, winter stayed proud
with death by her side,
a fitful absence
a tumult of sorts.
And, like the snow that fell on
the Southlands;
I witnessed you leave
in distinct disbelief.

Pain settled in with late winter fires,
the smolder of fear and grief.
And, still,
winter stayed,
lingered
Dark skies over heavy,
burdened air,
and, lives remained
not lackluster or without care.
And,
when the days grew longer
when frosts and ices melted
when the length of those forgotten days
stretched into something new,
when the sun retracted
it's cold shoulder
and life lifted our spirits;
a tomb
with no boulder,
I did pray.
I did scream.
I am haunted,
and I do fear
the warm days without you.
I fear the whole miss
of your insistent blue.
You were like a sky to me
A thing,
A life,
that could not be touched,
or shifted,
or taken
from my world.
And, winter left me here
with no cover,
no shelter in this world,
only a choice to fully unfurl.

So, Spring did come
like some hapless tempest,
with her long days
and fitful ways,
her incessant showers
and mindless moons,
She came all too soon,
with the promise of a scorching
remembrance of
all things past,
all things I held
with you,
the knowing...
that you had gone
away
too
soon.
The heat of her embrace,
not matching the warmth of your's.
The relent of her days,
not holding a spark to your spirit,
Her colors,
her greens and blues and all her flower things,
not conquering your truths.
So, I feared her,
Still, knowing she would come,
Still, knowing it would not be long.
And, I'd have to show your spirit
rest.
And, so I bargained
with Summer...
I left my fear in the winter year,
Inviting summer here,
to still hold your truths
and the remembrance of your moves.
We will always hold
every part of you
near and dear,
even in the Summer year.

Jason Christopher Johnson
April 17, 2015