All the planned emotion,
scheduled with an open ended ticket
foresight stretching years ahead
with fingers crossed.
And now the gates been closed,
signals crossed, debris on the lines
so i’ll bundle all of my pre-paid time
into one carriage, all at once with me for a second
and feel everything painted with sadness like
the deep blue hues of Rembrandt. All at once.
I see it like a book written in five separate places
but my writing is illegible and they seized it,
on the grounds of debauch’d misery.
Burning so that with each second passing
more of those words taste like
ash in my throat.
At least with the plants,
when they die I can blame myself
and be done with it.
But I’d be lying if i said i’m over
when my tiny bonsai dried up,
because I looked away
just a few days.
Aching from the continuous flow
of train, wait, train, walk, drop off,
walk. Pounding steps and sweating anxiety,
through town, up the hill, through the door.
Straight up the stairs and into bed, made
by you before I left. I pile in and bathe
in the smell of you, I pour the sheets over myself
to inhale moreish memory into lungs swollen
with starving. Masochistic self abuse.
I break into pieces in our bed, and my lungs
give up on me; they don’t want to let go.
Brave for them but
each time i hold up the bodies i love
the muscles tear and become habitually painful.
Sacrificial to the point of heartache
and i’m terrified at the repetition, waiting for luck
to fuck me again and the fear only seems to
feed it. I wish i could see it, a future where one
single body would be good, could remain the same
and not use divinity to lift me so high that
the consequential fall leaves me a pulp
in the grit.
Questions left empty, no evidence,
no promises, no help and the image painted
by your messages is one i know so well.
And i’m begging, put the rose tint back on,
I need to know. Where’s the reliable source.
Blank canvass and the unknown and
pre-set expectations. Very valid fears never before
proven wrong and always always the suggestion
that i’m insane.
“But you’re so strong,”
I’m still in pain.
Someone was bound to love me
at some point, i’m unavoidably magnetic.
I don’t regret it, the fall quicker than i could
catch my pulse to measure, running away with me.
Wind knocked out and a cork to stop my lungs:
wine soaked and lush with those berry hints.
If love were a poem it’d be red
with matter-of-fact similarity to Merlot,
or Blood. Which will it be and can you
tell the difference. If you cut me open you could
drink, to celebrate the days we’ve spent aware that
the other is breathing. Beautifully weaving
a life alongside a stranger (the way you were) ;
little fingers tied like a three legged race.
You see those fingertips edged with capability,
i want them in me. Win me with your thumb against
the back of my teeth. I’ll make my bed, plumped with
the victories won in the name of what is right
and my back moulded to perfect company,
your arm underneath.
I spent years trying
to break my bones in small places,
small enough to bend into the mold given
by sour eyed mice, scratching at the walls.
Trying to reach the debris from the mouths
of fat white men in slick lined suits.
And then i fell in love with cats
so hard that i ached for the claws and the teeth:
the ability to say no. Set my own boundaries and
kept the strange hands away from my spine
with a screeching hiss.
Don’t you like me like this?
All a game to be played
to the punchline, teeth ground fine
into sharp ivory nubs good for slicing
mice in half, the tendons stretched ankle to calve –
I’d eat you whole, but I’ve gone off meat.
Instead i’ll hang your body from a spire
for the world to see.
I like the moon
but my god, the moon likes you.
You smell like warm butter, dripping
for tongues to catch, quick slick thick with
wanting. I’m avoiding absolutes like a cat catching
fish in a sea of them. Touch: for as brief a moment
as possible. Bad days leave me swaying and heady
with opium images of you, on occasion, and
i burn them all up; fingertips. Singed lips unhinged
at the memory of your, pillow talk mouth.
Careful with that one, it pulls to the south
but i’ll draw you a map using fingernails and
fine stitching. So you know where to begin,
unpicking. Tissue paper directions dissolve
with a change in the tide, no need to hide,
the X has rubbed out. Your hands, delicately
capable as they are, hold the pen.
I gave it to you, but tomorrow, i’ll take it back
and begin again. Lunar reflections like eyes
in the ocean you’re dipping toes into.
Cautious and overwhelmed, you could
fall under. You could, and in the palm of those
vessels of surety, conveyances of love too
wonderful too look at head on – I’d have my own
version settled. Fingers linked like chain mail.
As long as you let me, as long as i like.
Moons can pull the tide, but not my intent.
Not with all their might.
A straight, continuous line,
directly from the platform, heels
catching on the edge of the train.
Through the herding bays of humanity,
huge open doors and two final quickened steps
straight into your arms, stranger.
I’ve been lost in dizziness since.
Floating above the rain and laying my
hands on every part of you i can get to
as often as I can, trying to commit the dips of you
to memory. Remember we spent hours
a Centimetre apart. Pounding hearts.
Until your face finally came to rest on
the contours of my own, breathing deep
full bodied sighs of relief.
Can I kiss you?
Oh god, yes please.