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