I’m close to running out of words
but since you always preferred pictures
I will write this last one as an image,
bold colours painted on canvas
to accentuate the meaning you have only partly heard.
Brush strokes form curves that protect from your sharp edges,
you were a paper cut borrowing my blood,
spreading stained fingerprints across soaked skin
and calling it fine art, calling it love.
It’s December 2016, and we pack these winter blossoms
into bento boxes, whispers of potential
to warm these bones, worn as a wish
but later wrapped as a promise.
You profess you cannot understand poetry
so brave the words in plain sight, born of longing
for a lighter spring, a bold leap towards belonging
to the flow of the seasons and folded limbs.
‘More fun’, you said, ‘more time’, list reasons to celebrate
our intertwining lives and smile at the story so far.
The story; so far.
This might be a year of firsts;
the year I learn not to shrink
into a space neatly prepared for my heart
since I am a privilege
and not a ‘one size fits all’,
that even good things can fall away
and words left unsaid
are a bottled scent left on the doorstep,
a perfume I can’t wear anymore,
pick my power up off the floor,
feed on its potential,
For one last time
the words unstick themselves from the back of my throat
and we quietly slip away,
driving south one hundred miles
to my childhood shores
and a heat wave;
I’ll leave them here,
shaping sentences into a softer ending,
one wrapped in daisy chains.
At 2pm, last year breezed past me, out the door,
gracefully granting next year could plant her seeds
before sunset, steadily watered with liquid gold.
‘Hey Jude’ playing over the speakers
and I bless the drunken singers, warbling chorus
enough to cover for our quietness
as we stand there, feeling the corners of our lips
curl up in the sounds of silent serenade,
whilst tiny songwriters etch lyrics into our retinas,
signalling how these soft notes might look good on us.
Muddy boots, the sign of a good adventure
breeze-dried to my jeans.
It’s Christmas, and anyone who knows lonely
will know how much this means
to have hands to pull you up.
The wind gives me time to steady my feet,
mist lingering in earnest to softly kiss my cheeks
with afternoon colours, greys and greens and blues
and we could be on top of the world.
Now, more than ever,
I understand nature’s lesson;
a picture really is worth a thousand words.
One remaining star in the sky
flickers faint but true, just as these eyes
would give away their last spark
to have yours to stare into,
leaking wishes that trickle from our cheeks to the floor
as frozen rain,
and finally you can teach me to ice skate.