Caught In The Middle

I’m
caught in
the middle
of this
way
and that
way,
and you’re
not
helping
by
standing
there
looking all
cute,
and awful
to
the touch.

I’m
imagining
the
days where
my
decision
becomes our
decision,
but
that
day has yet
to
step
foot
in this
house.

See,
I’m caught
in
the
wrong
middle,
having
to
decide my
feelings
for you
and
I’m
not
too certain
whether
you’ll
be here
when
I wake up.
I’m
still feelin
your
smile,
and your
touch
is
a priceless
creature.

So,
I’m
still caught
in
the middle
but it’s
cool
because
you’re
just
a
pure
glance
down
the way.

M.C. Davis

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If you look
closely
at that
mirror,
you’ll
see the
oceans
I see
in  your
face,
and the
secret
layers
in
between
this
place and
the next.
Your
eyes force
wind
to shut
up and stare,
and of course,
the
lips, in
their
true
rare form
give
way
to
the mess
of Greek
Gods.

Yes,
I remember
the
time
you
spoke
and the
mountains
moved
slightly
to
the right.
Yes, I
remember
when
you gave
way
to thought
and
the days
added
to themselves
the 25th
hour.

See, I see
you
for what
the
Gods
have intended.
It’s the
only
way I
know
how to
see you.

M.C. Davis

On Being Able To Wait

Waiting.

Waiting is almost a forever word.

Often, when I wait for something, I immediately draw images from the lines that I’ve stood. I draw in the smells, and senses that have created a room filled with layers, colors, and visuals that either hold you closer or keep you at a far distance.

And there I am.

Waiting.

Waiting until the next person nods, to incite a nod from the person in front of him; which, if you haven’t guessed,  will eventually cause me to nod in a cool effort to keep the rhythm well oiled and lubricated.

So, I’ve learned to see waiting as a rhythm of sort. A pace that keeps track of how people interact, feel, and see one another. Waiting is a style that allows us to flow through one another, and not at one another.

So, I’m waiting. I’ll wait until I need to stop waiting.

…or at least until my foot stop tapping.

M.C. Davis

Adam

The shades
of the
sun do
you
no justice,
since
your elegant
glance
seizes
the
hours
and seconds
of
the day.

The layers
of
the moon
find
themselves
moody,
and in
between
mixed cycles
since
the
air
you exhale
is
too
pure to
the touch.

I’m
alive and
in tune
with
the wisdom
of
Greek Gods
because
you
took that
leap
and gave
way to
the world.

We’re still here.
We’re still here.
We’re still here.

M.C. Davis