The mid-night sighs in silent service,
awake with unfinished business
and heartache.
Parched throat,
thirsty for hope
but never to be quenched.
Thoughts desperate to make sense
will catch on everything that was never heard,
what we smoothed over to forget
the dark side of the moon.
The seats we sat on,
mine precariously, cross-legged but not comfortably,
balancing the weight of something both new and nostalgic,
the way you took off your denim jacket,
the way you fidget with your wristbands out of habit.
The cups we drank from,
yours plastic, mine ceramic.
I think they sensed the flush from our skin
when the ice in yours melted,
no attention paid to how they tasted.
We all knew, me and you didn’t show up for the coffee.
The ground we walked on,
mindless pacing yet purposeful.
Were our steps in time,
following the trail of crumbs through our past lives?
I’ll mark each stop with a cross,
treasuring the map that sends us round and round in buried circles.
Dividing kilometres
by the words I can add up on my fingers,
hand to heart co-ordinating my pen to write
of your absent mind
whilst my mouth holds back lines,
sentences strung from the day’s reminders of you.
Tina knew,
love has something to do with it
but now is neither the time nor the place
to submit to measured spirits,
I’ve always drunk till contented
and even one can be too much for me.
So I sip today slowly,
stall my letters, keep them short,
the score only matters to those playing the game
and I am no one’s to gain.
I race with the softest of movements,
choices so silent I could slip away.
I’m trying to catch up with myself,
the me without these extra pounds,
chasing her shadow in circles
as the sun goes down.
She is where I’m meant to be right now,
the imaginary ideal,
and I don’t know which of us
is more pitiful.
If there is no God, instead can I
grant myself the strength to do what is right,
help myself decide
which piece of my fragile heart
I should be guided by.
It doesn’t know whose side it’s on,
where to stand to be on mine.
So much does it love,
but so much it is lost at the same time.
Would it be letting go
of the most precious thing I’ll ever find
or is this a lesson
in treasuring moments while they last,
learning to leave what no longer serves
my best life.
Or is it you, walking away from me
because I don’t deserve this gift,
have I not cared enough and in the right way,
have I been too afraid to give it my all
or did I give all I could by two months in
and the rest is my passive acceptance
along a road I’m not meant to live,
waiting for the end
like I can’t start my own beginning,
like I can’t be my own higher power.
Dear my demons,
it’s me again
just a quick note
as since we last spoke
I’ve done some more thinking
and I’ve come to see
that the one blocking
the door to your exit
is me.
See, I’ve left it wide open
but inside my head
is a maze
that I built
in the hope
to avoid your gazes
but instead
of keeping me safe
we’re both lost in here too,
stubbornly refusing to move.
And I’ve learnt
that you won’t go
if you’re asked,
I’ve tried being polite,
I’ve tried casting spells
or blasting you with a couple of good days
till I’m screaming at you to fuck off
and it’s me that’s got the headache.
Because I’m screaming at me,
your presence is me,
you come from me,
you’re the parts of me
I’ve decided are too painful
to be part of me
because I don’t want you
in here [mind] feeding this [heart].
But whilst you’re still my enemy
we’re all starving of something
so maybe it’s time I listened
to what you’ve got to say
and do something less predictable
and ask you to stay.
I’m not saying we’ll be friends here
this just isn’t worth the fight
and I might as well
get to know you
if you’re planning on popping in
through every hard time in my life.
And you’re pretty fucking persistent at that,
and maybe that’s something important,
like how I don’t give you enough credit
for still dropping by
and coming to see me
when no matter how hard you try
to pass a message onto me
all I do is my best
to ignore you,
I mean,
that’s a pretty shit job.
Look, I don’t think
I’ll get this right first time,
I’m still trying to come to terms
with the fact that you’re mine
and it’s pretty hard to face you
when all I’ve done is wanted you gone,
but in the spirit
of trying to love
every part of myself,
whilst I grab us a slice of cake
do you mind putting the kettle on?
Can I call myself a writer
before I’ve learnt the art
of forgiving myself?
