Which Direction

Which
direction
leads me to
you,
west or east
or
some cardinal
place
in
between;
like semicolons
that
simmer in between
a few
clauses,
or
a moment of the
day
that
decides
to
shift into
darkness without
asking
the
stars
for permission.
Which direction
leads
me to
us,
and our life
that starts
and ends
like
bookends to stabilize
the
entire
bookshelf;
or
like a feeling
that gets
noticed
in
the most
perfect
tense.
See,
I’m
learning that
every direction
leads
me
to you,
since my
eyes are curated
for
the most
subtle
and
beautiful
of
things.

M.C. Davis

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Face

Show me your face,
skin
fragments divided
into
lines
that shift in between
the
laugh
and the frown,
telling a
story or two
of
where all the things
that
matter suddenly don’t.
Show me
the character
design,
where you get
to
stand without
crutches,
or without a permission
slip to walk
down
your
own hallway.
See,
I see poetry
on your face,
with letters that fill
in the
stanzas and
I’m
still writing
because
these eyes
simply can’t look
away.

M.C. Davis

Inspire

When
we inspire each other,
we
fall into a
gentle breeze,
flexing airwaves and
letting
hair
follicles
dance
like the wind
never
existed.
We find inspiration,
facing
each other,
and arguing about
the
nuances
of
a
morning sunrise,
and
if
this inspiration
fills in our gaps,
we
are
arguably the
best people we
can
be.

M.C. Davis

Examination

Poets
get to examine
the
layers of
words,
dissection in between
the
feelings,
syllables,
and characters
that
blend without
being
told
to
do so.
Poets
also
feel out the
unspoken
gifts,
giving grace notes
to
the
unused
letters,
and
if they’re
lucky,
they
will get
the chance
to
grow into
the
words
toddlers
say.
See,
we poets
are
dreamers
and framers of
things,
so
let
this
poet fall back
into
place
without
too
much noise
from
the decimals
and
misunderstood
fractions.

M.C. Davis

On Missing

See,
our fingers just
left
their space,
all
entangled
and reaching for
more
sources.
I’m
missing a bit
of our
touch,
the elegance
of it all,
as
our bodies
collide
on purpose
and with intent.
I’m missing
the
taste,
the
fragrance,
and the layering
of
what we give
back
to the Universe,
and
if it gets
too
late,
we always
have
the
option
to simply
exist in our own
beautiful
space.

M.C. Davis

My Love Is In There

My love
is in
there,
resting
in place like
a
whole note,
shifting
and tapping in step
with
our hands,
loose
in the
dirt
and without care
to
concern,
or
wind
to its
direction.

My love
is
in there,
filling in
the crevices,
and
if
we’re lucky,
your
love will
just
be my
last
resting
place.

M.C. Davis

Like This

No love
like this
simply
falls
into
place,
it
saunters
and swims its
way
to
the depths,
and
our fear
of this dance
just
floats like
a
feather does
on
a cool
windy
day.
A love
like this
feel like sun-drenched
rain,
misting
but not
damp
enough to matter
to
the view ahead.
See,
let’s
forget the rules
and
let
this moment
exist
without
paragraphs,
syllables,
of those
things that cause
our
sentences
to
end.

M.C. Davis