A lipstick-stained bookmark
I call it that…it’s halfway true
It used to be a kiss (bright red)
The kind you’d leave around the house
Like eggs we hunt at Easter…
Slippery markers for my lusts.
Seems you left them everywhere
💋 Fridge 💋 Mirror 💋 Windshield
They weren’t always stains, you see,
I wiped most of them away.
They now appear more like pinkish smudges.
Blurry blush for holding grudges
and yet, this one remains…
Saves a page of favorite poems
reminding me of you…reminding you…of us

Now pressed between some paper dreams
Collections of somebody’s life.
It surely was in better days
Filled with poetry on loan,
Love in shades of blues and grays
Letters to myself.
Upon a dusty shelf resides…
The past we now ignore.
What is and was once more…
All the while, the present tense
Is hiding in plain sight
Much like dark before the dawn
Or the shadows of the night.
A past we’re trying to escape
Hanging on to shades of fate
History playing on repeat
Memories tasting bittersweet

The future isn’t written yet,
It’s anybody’s guess,
something down the road
I want, I need, I know I’ll get
Be careful what you’re wishing for
You said that once before
That was when the days were longer
At the time…at the time…
We thought that time would never end.
But what I write is not yet written
They’re only thoughts, just inclinations
Regarding what will be…or is it?
I can’t predict what happens next
It’s circumspect, this vain context
But if I write it…will it happen?
The future! Can I tell? Can you?
Consider its definition:
“The period of time following the moment
of speaking or writing.”

Sounds strange to say the least, and yet,
We speak it nonetheless.
Not knowing where the words will lead,
Changing times, dates, and history
Open gates to destiny;
set the fiery wheels in motion,
Or write them just the same
No second thoughts to blame;
No shades of doubt at all
The words come flying out;
sacred moments we confess
The words hold weight, resonance.
Frequencies.
Inconsistencies.
a kiss to make the dream complete
An aftertaste, that’s bittersweet.

With poetry as a healing salve
And words of loss with no resolve
No chance to make amends,
The truth we bend so viciously
Precariously, we set love free,
Then miss what we’ve destroyed.
The nerve of you to be annoyed!
I clearly burned that bridge!
But isn’t that the way it goes…
A life in transit, we suppose,
A poet wanderer sounds romantic,
Just cruising down the line.
Always somewhere far ahead
Searching for an exit sign.
Writing stories, snaking vines
Once bursting full of grapes.
Now wrath is all you have,
It whispers, welling to a scream.
The ending’s never what it seems
So ponder as you think

Bittersweet, the tea you drink
or coffee if you will…
Some half and half or milk to spill;
Some honey now and then.
Some scraps of paper in your coat;
Some anecdotes on post-it notes.
I memorized the words you wrote…
Dear John, goodbye, it was.
We often tell ourselves a story,
Point out faults, ignore our own.
Scrapbook, cut and pasted dreams,
schemes we buy and sell.
It’s hard to tell where one line ends
and where the truth begins.
Pay for crimes, a wealth of sins,
We barter for our souls…
Some tales of valor; days of old,
in reckless youth and bliss.
It’s true, I missed the punchline,
Overhead, the message flew.

And in that moment, I saw behind
your smile as if a veil…
We often fail to see the light;
It may as well be black.
For lack becomes a state of mind,
a point of peril for the blind.
But that’s not what I want to say…
The day is steeped in rain
My pain is just an aftermath,
a consequence of time.
Pages of our loss sublime,
gathered in these books.
Auburn hair for second looks,
whispers for decline.
Listening to Sweet Child O’ Mine,
The solo’s coming up…
The wall of sound…an empty cup;
an echo on the breeze.
I taste the memory once more…
It plays so bittersweet.

TM DiSarro
©2025 TM DiSarro/ MindScapes Publishing

From THE MEMORY OF RAIN