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