John Tustin

Tiny Sunlight

Tiny sunlight pushes through the blinds
And finds a tumble of her hair
On her head,
Askew and black as black can be.
The hair shines a deep red in the intruding light
Until she moves about the room,
Opening and closing drawers,
Finding her clothes in the dusky air
In a new morning.

The tiny sunlight maneuvers to a place on the carpet
As she descends the steps toward the bathroom,
Leaving me alone in the room,
Watching her body disappear from sight,
Thinking of the night before
And how her hair felt brushing back and forth
Against my face as we made one another happy
Then how it felt splayed along my chest after
And how it just looked, just a moment ago, always as black as black can be
But also red like old blood and shining with the sun,
Oblivious that I will forever ache to touch it.


The Words have Gone Home

The words have gone home,

Locked their doors behind them,
Turned off their phones,
Shut their shades
And taken vows of silence.
The stars have been extinguished,
Snuffed like little candles
By oblivious acolytes.
The moon stopped laughing at me
Long enough to hide
And stay hidden.
She doesn’t even chuckle anymore.
I have been abandoned by all

But my own eyes
And my eyes only anger me.
I hold myself in the total darkness,
No longer waiting for anything,
For anyone.
It’s just me here
In this bed
In this room
On this street
In this world
With nothing to look forward to
Because heaven is not real
And even if it was
There are no more stars
To light the path
To it.

© John Tustin

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. contains links to his published poetry online.

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