Three Poems (Inspired by ‘Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen’)

Three Poems

Inspired by “Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen”

These three poems draw their inspiration from my short story, Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen (2025, ADG Books via Kindle Direct Publishing). They are composed from the distinct perspectives of both central characters, Jim and Kelly, each offering a unique lens on the shared moments and subtle nuances that shape the narrative. Through these poetic explorations, the inner worlds of Jim and Kelly unfold—reflecting not only their outward comings and goings but also the art and vulnerability of truly being seen.

Sonnet: The Quiet Unbuttoning

From Jim Garraty’s Perspective

Her fingers brushed the cloth with patient grace,

Each button loosed like breath I’d held too long.

No rush, no need to fill the silent space—

Just sandalwood and citrus, soft and strong.

She stood so near, yet asked for nothing more

Than what I dared to offer, inch by inch.

My hand, unsure, retreated from her core,

Afraid to touch what didn’t need a flinch.

She saw it all—the stutter in my chest,

The way my body faltered in its plea.

And still she stayed, composed, as if undressed

Was not a risk, but quiet dignity.

I watched her, bathed in lamplight’s golden hue,

And knew I’d never see the world the same.

Sonnet: What I Saw in the Pause

From Kelly Moore’s Perspective

He reached, then stopped—his fingers lost midair,
A breath caught deep where words refused to go.
I saw the tremble, not with need to spare,
But with the kind of grace that learns to know.

No part of him was mine to claim or lead;
I only touched the cloth, not for control,
But just to ease the weight of some old need
That stitched itself too tightly to his soul.

I did not ask for courage he’d not found,
Nor did I flinch when silence filled the room.
I stood, unarmed, with feet upon the ground,
And let my stillness soften all his gloom.

To be unafraid—that was all I gave.
And maybe that was how I helped him stay.

After Midnight, the Quiet Stayed

From Jim Garraty’s Perspective

The stereo clicked off,
but Billy Joel kept playing in my head—
soft doo-wop echo stitched to moonlight
and the shape of her shoulder beneath my palm.
Sound rules, she’d said.
But the hush was already sacred.

Her bed was a canvas:
rumpled linen, shadow softened
by slanted moonlight that painted
her hair in flecks of gold.
I held her like she might vanish
if I breathed too hard.

Her thumb traced circles on mine—
slow, sleepy,
like she was drawing a map
to where I’d finally arrived.

I catalogued everything:
the curl of her bangs,
the fan of her lashes,
the scent of citrus and something
I couldn’t name but knew was hers.

Her breath whispered across my collarbone,
and I imagined her heartbeat
tapping against my ribs—
a secret note passed
without urgency.

When she asked what was wrong,
I almost lied.
But the truth came out
in a whisper too soft to bruise:
I wished I’d been better.
I wished I’d lasted longer.
I wished I’d known how to be enough.

She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t rush to reassure.
Just looked at me
like she’d already made peace
with every part of me
I hadn’t yet forgiven.

Her kiss to my forehead
wasn’t consolation.
It was presence.
It was grace.

“You were kind,” she said.
“You were here.
That’s what matters.”

And maybe—just maybe—
I believed her.

When I asked why,
why me,
why this,
she didn’t hesitate.

“Because I like you,”
she said.
“Because I needed to.
And because I think you needed it, too.”

No speech.
No flourish.
Just truth,
quiet and unshakable
as the hush that stayed
long after the music stopped.