Climbing Out Of Your Dimples

Climbing Out Of Your Dimples

The hardest lessons lie on the other side

of the simplest graces;

half drunk coffee shaded by morning faces,

the made bed erasing the outline

of our shapes in it.

Life interrupted by the presence of another

grazing the nape of my neck,

skin a confusion of perfect sense

because I believe the universe is foolproof

and my learning is in the leaving of everything

but your borrowed toothbrush.

X Marks The Spot

X Marks The Spot

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.

Good Old Days

Good Old Days

You came to me as a match,

that one chance to spark a flame

created a candle lit dinner

with soul food to take away.

It’s the risk of burning which tells me I’m safe

building bonfires with the childlike abandon

of a heart who believes

we’re dancing in circles where we’ve already been

and we need no time to waste

all the time in the world.

Here Lies Grace

Here Lies Grace

I woke up this morning and sensed the air

mingle with the spaces between my fingers,

the weight of your absence

like a twenty pound blanket I sometimes carry

as extra skin

when I long to feel less fragile

and more oxytocin, more real

and less repellent.

I round up my knees

to cradle the present,

give it the human touch it needs

in moments of discomfort so quiet

that I hear the birds outside my window

breathe in faintest echoes

like the words my lips speak silently

across an empty pillow.

Towards A Theory Of Absolute Uncertainty

Towards A Theory Of Absolute Uncertainty

The first thing you notice

is how hard it feels to sit with a restless spirit,

agitated by all the ways you’ve avoided gazing

at missed connections,

professing a non-attachment to introspection

that instead increases its need,

a pretence of patch work through which

your soul bleeds for authenticity.

Underneath this cover lies your bundle of energy,

bravely waiting for you to acknowledge its truth

and set out on this journey, one that

some will refuse, fearful of their own power

and its potential, but not you,

the you who has always known of kinetic flow,

the you who comes from the earth,

made from the same molecules as a pile of dirt,

each handful worth its weight in diamonds

for simply becoming, before then building

each beautiful view

and the sounds that surround them.

Your love is a work of art in motion,

each movement a choice of devotion

or selfish gain

and only by digging deeper than the surface

can the heart hear what needs to change.

This is the work of the dreamers,

those intimate with wilderness,

so at peace with the untamed

they’ve felt every natural disaster,

slept with the creators of war and human chains

yet still give birth to present moment

after present moment

and pronounce it sacred.