You withered from me
like a change of season.
I grieved and thoughts of you fell
like leaves; soon brushed
tidily away from my life.
Though, I still find traces of you –
little crumb-like memories –
their welcome overstayed.
Not all of them are murderous
as you. Some are nostalgic flames.
Flames I must overthrow
for my own good. Embers of desire
I must put out and put down,
afraid of what would recur
like an unforgiving forest fire.
I wish I could freeze
every memory of you
and shatter each one into nothingness.
Even though I am sure they would thaw
and seep back through my skull.
You’ve been missing from me of late.
A distant memory tells me that you were there, once.
Bright, longing, wanting – then you slipped away
I don’t know why you left me.
Only an anthology of poetry could unriddle
that mystery. I cannot fathom what I did wrong,
if I did anything wrong. . .
I recall your eyes,
so heavy, so light.
So healing to look into.
A dilemma I couldn’t immediately solve.
But when I wanted a solution,
you faded; evaded without resolution.
Perhaps it was me. Too pushy.
Too insistent. Too much blind love
and not enough careful thought.
I love too much or not at all;
that’s where I fall.
Am I sick in the head, criminally insane,
or do you draw your joy from my pain?
My love for you comes in storms.
Short-lived, excessive, then calm.
Until my next dark cloud.
Our eyes met
and our minds drifted –
years back – to a beach –
cold sand –
our feet cut by stones
we didn’t expect,
(because the movies never show them)
a conversation as demoralising as sand
between our toes –
annoying, awkward, inexterminable;
shaved hair tickling the back of a neck.
So when we part
we try to shake off shame
like sand between our toes.
Apparently inapparent – yet lingering
in our toe nails and pores,
the cuts in our feet.
A poem I’ve written in retrospect of many recent growths and changes in my life. I hope it will be as liberating to you reading it as it was for me writing it.
A poem about knowing someone only via nights out and a like button.
Unlock your knees, your jaw, your neck,
your back, your breath,
and breathe. It’s a simple request,
to ask you to breathe,
but it’s a lifetime’s work.
It’s a lifetime’s work
to stay in the present,
to live in full fervent colour
when old clouds gather
to piss grey all over your attempts.
Grey is valuable, for it is comfort;
never growth. You have to be scorched
to appreciate cold; dog-tired
to chase your sleep; to fail
in order to succeed; broke, to empathise with greed.