Letters of Calyx Tristam

Iris, here are some of the poems I been writing. I really hope you like them

My Hands Are Cold, My Voice Is Brittle

Why do they always tell me to count sheep? If I really wanted to go to sleep, what do sheep have to do with anything? I close my eyes and I start to see waves of vivacious colors, but I still listlessly grasp to reality’s dim light. A reminiscent of limerence, a lost time where I could never let go.

She’s call’s ask why my hand’s are so cold, but my voice was too brittle to speak. I guess it wasn’t the first time I choked on my own words. I never heard such words that could be so vital, enough to double-cross senses, decorate the canvas, and melt me away. Speculate the scene, iris in to where all I could see is the rapture of feeling infinite youth. When the morning comes I wouldn’t want to wake up. How could a cloud this high not be real?

Will we collapse before I open my eyes again? The breaths she took were priceless, I could never… never mind. I can feel the reds and the blues intertwine, but I tomorrow it won’t be the same. She walks and at one glance she could tell me she misses me. I’d look back, iris in again so maybe I could infinite again.

She was oblivious to the descending of the haze. Two more lines would bring her up to apathy. I looked at the clock with disdain when the hours were flashing by. I don’t want go to sleep. I don’t want to wake up. My hands were feeling cold again. My voice was getting brittle. I zeroed in and saw her face.

Diamond Rings And Cigarettes

So what’s it like to sway in the streetlights and ask when he’ll love you? You had a bit too much to drink when they say you’re cynical, you’re a wallflower. You’ll say you’re sleepwalking but you never can tell.

I thought you were the reason I sang in nightclubs and maybe find your diamond ring in an ash tray. I would tell the kids we were in love and we got married on a hilltop. I walked down the hallway and heard a song that would tell me the words you would never tell me. You posted a note on the kitchen door that said, “Maybe, I love you”. Days when they talked about the weather, we got strung out from radiant recollections of adolescence.

There was a waterfront. When I was young I wondered why the water sparkled. What was like when you danced in the rain calling his name? Did you realize I was in the rain that night too? At that moment I wished I had his name. I never liked my name much. What was it like when the wind stopped the music when you cried?

I was still singing in nightclubs hoping you’d come to hear me sing. Each cigarette is one cigarette closer to finding that diamond ring. Each song I sing is one song closer to the hilltop where we’ll get married. Each rainy night is a night closer when you’ll be calling my name. I’ll be dancing in it and I’ll ask you to marry me.

Silver Clouds And Airplanes

I had two shots too much after midnight’s last drag. I called the girl who got away and told her she was my princess. Maybe the next I dream of fairy tales, I’ll make sure there’s a happy ending. She had a dress made of lace and fingertips frail like porcelain. I walked somewhere in the ether where I heard a knock calling. Through the window I saw lonely people drinking in bars and clouds of smoke that twirled in silhouettes. Maybe sometime I should walk somewhere I could see clearly.

There’s corridor where a mistress asked me to take her away. We drown in sea of trance, lost in the perception of time. Was I born at that moment? I couldn’t stay that young forever. We balanced carelessly down the skyline where nothing else mattered.

You drifted slowly and projectiles curved over our heads. I felt so serene on the bedroom floor. She looked at me in the bathroom mirror and she laughed because I impersonated Buddy Holley. That year I was too afraid too to fly on airplanes but I was more afraid of being farther away from her.

I spent late nights at a diner and talked to the waitress about the last time we felt love. Some nights she would shake her head and tell me she needed someone to hold her. I walked on a frozen surface where the ice was thin as the line between dreams and delusions. I crushed a hole in the ice and saw her reflection. I’d let the wind take me on the next silver cloud to take me back to her again. It beats buying a plane ticket.

A Dance In The Sand

The sun's last caress drifted off the hills as we pillow talked about days that were swallowed by the scar of age. Two years of grey skies and a journey to nowhere slithered past when I woke. I had a terrible dream that lasted a year, ten months and several days. I couldn't remember when I last slept, but I didn't know if I'd ever wake up. Night's wasted, oblivious to what really mattered.

One, two, I couldn't count to three. Not because I was stupid, but because I hated the number three. I hated a lot of things. I thought the world was ugly, you thought I was beautiful. I was never the same. I walked in the rain singing about chasing the boundaries of reality. I'd hope my delirium wouldn't get me before you would me.

Time past and I got so angry at the cultivated strings of what used to be. I wished you were there to tell me it was okay. I walked into the doorway and looked to only find a room with desolate faces. They were in groups. Maybe I should have said something. I didn't have anything to say.

She laughs and tells me to dance in the sand, but sometimes I’d forget where I was at. We’d melt as the summer froze and velvet hardened. I read your letters and hope for a sense of nostalgia. Somewhere in the world I know there’s you looking through different eyes. If I had the chance, I’d dream of how we danced in the sand. But right now, it’s just me, the beach, and another lonely sunset

Can I Borrow A Pen?

Where is your higher place? Where do you stand? Where’s the light that shakes? There’s a place where it bleeds, but it doesn’t hurt. The isolating corners are closing in. Memories are compacted and concentrated into delirious potential.

A resonant sound kicks in as I hit the wall. Many times when I feel like this it’s hard to remember to breath. Throbs from my head to my lungs and I’m zeroed in. I lost control in rage and found treasures in misconceptions. I’d run on the colors but the colors never match. Her quilt glowed like fireworks, but I never asked why? I don’t know anymore…

I remember days I could make her smile by dancing like Elvis Presley and didn’t have to say a word but, “Thank you, thank you very much”. I could capture her with my lyrical clauses, I couldn’t conquer her will. Maybe tonight when I dream, I could be John Lennon again. I couldn’t buy her love, but I could feel it.

I Can Feel A Hot One

There’s an old book on the shelf. It looked excessively aged so no one bother to read it. There’s a desolate house at the edge of the street. Someone died alone there and it’s been empty there ever since. There’s a self portrait of a young lady on the wall. No one can remember who she was so they just pass on by.

The floor was covered in broken glass and from the looks of it; I really didn’t have anywhere to go. My eyes wondered and saw the self-portrait. Why couldn’t I remember her? What’s it like to be nothing left but a vague memory dying out? Will it happen to all of us one day?

A long road turned into a frail, beaten path; worn from years and years of who knows what. I saw a house. I vaguely remember seeing that house on the news. Someone hung himself there. What happened? Why didn’t anyone stop him? How do you get that lonely? What would I have done if I was there? Does anyone miss him? Will he be forgotten like the girl in the self-portrait? How is this fair? I didn’t know him, but it doesn’t make sense.

All these questions are just shaking back and forward in my stomach. There are many things I guess I’ll never understand. I went into the attic to look at things that I have forgotten I even had. I found a shelf with books, all of them had lairs of dust and probably years older than my parents. Who ever wrote them, I hope they weren’t forgotten like these books were.