You don't feel better
now that what was once
so alive
is now what twice leaves you hanging.
longing
for someone new
and for something thats more
than truth.

remind me of being
in love
with you
because memory serves
to rest
without

But your breathing stains my mind,
and fixated, crosses T's and dots the I's,
but let me read your words, my book.
Let me see the heart you took.

 One set of eyes and I'm freezing,
But you look away
and I'm frozen.

 Open and empty,
I'm frozen.
Must be broken.
What I've heard can't be spoken,
It's running circles out of my lines.

 Take my hair down,
Strand by strand.
Level me out,
I'm lost in your hands,
Running through fingers like sand
that dusts the shoes on your floor.

 One little glance and I'm broken,
Two eyes for one,
I've been stolen.

 But I give you up.
I forefit my eyes and I say I'll give up.
I'm too frozen.
I'm quite broken
up in your arms.
 

It's hard to make this distance wider
than the widest sea
where the waves come crashing,
to common sense and clarity.
 
You make me what I'll never be.
 
The principles of such uncertainty,
I walk ahead,
leave you to breathe,
turning the top of the carousel,
and waking me from dreams.
 
Our legs curl by the blue curtains rim,
and I tie you there and watch you scream,
I know just how it feels to be free,
and where you're running
 
Familiarity locks away the keys. 

In such pressing matters,

Like flowers between rolls of text,

What can be lost?

The memory of a breath,

And the shadow of the sun on fields,

The way your hair sweeps just above your eyes,

And sometimes falls.

Not every moment warrants a picture,

But a gathering of thoughts,

Between dimensions, the 4^th, no 5^th,

We are travellers in time,

And we are still,

always.

Nothings present,

Where I begin the line, I go on and do not re-read,

Except in glimmers, of angled lines,

Love seems gone when summers near,

But love is never too far from here.

This tap on the door is nothing but rain,

It is nothing but rain,

But it is as gentle as withstanding a quiet hour,

And all time after,

Spent with you.

Love to see the shadows dance,
Captured like a soft touch of creaky stair,
Seven steps into a room,
and there,
 
there is where I sat and wrote to you.
 
So it was but a letter or five,
and there was no soft reply,
and the ages that we lived through,
stayed ridden of life contrived,

in stone,
 
and yet I wrote and wrote and wrote to you,
and the paper sang of places green and blue,
and I learnt to be,
like someone else’s roses.
 
And the summer came with a brush of someone else’s poses,
and someone else’s days spent on the distant shore,
and the waves crossed over on your toes,
and made you paler, gentler than before.
 
Love to see the swift flight of your eyes to mine,
imagination of all I held divine,
A little way into a room.
and there,
worth no glance or two,

 
there is where I sit to think of you.

Distances have gone away,

They have travelled themselves,

And finding nothing,

Sit and rest near dusty books with withered ends,

Petals damage softly underfoot,

We execute ourselves with woes,

And yet nothing matters,

Above all love,

Yet as I glance, so eagerly waiting your touch,

Everything does.

Drawing the faces of someone I’ve yet to know,

And shading their skin to an inch of blush,

I find such little sleep without thought of you,

And dreams are remembered and lost.

Distances have gone away,

They have travelled themselves,

And finding nothing,

Sit and rest near dusty books with withered ends,

And yet finding something, perhaps its nothing,

Sit and smile near dreams pretence.

Breathe away his carbon dioxide,

Where he sat for the train, I sit one away,

Waiting,

Touching his face like an effigy,

There are marks but no sculptor went wrong,

His hand brushes where mine rested,

I don’t feel it at all.

My ghost says hello in the tunnels,

And the carriages sound flustered too,

He could be anywhere, and I am anywhere,

And yet we are nowhere at all.

A violin chants down the passageway,

And I excavate the notes as they rise,

And yet with such little light,

No one here entertains a smile.

A crumple of papers in my hand,

The nearest touch of life,

I wonder perhaps what he wrote last,

And when his eyes will meet mine.

Drawing

It did not feel like flying,

And the air was little but a dream,

Yet I swept you there beneath my writing desk,

Catching dust and embers,

But I can’t keep you,

I do not need you now.

Sometimes when it’s too late to speak,

I consider the detail,

Ink pens flatter white faces,

They lose all the places,

Here geography is nothing.

I can make you a gathering of lines,

But I must tell you I can no longer see for miles,

A library up high so the birds can read,

They are flying, and we are breathing little sighs,

See the paper stack beside my bed,

Plaguing my thoughts with knowledge,

And gazing skywards to forget,

I fear perhaps I need you now.

A small print from a kiss,

Drawing long hearts on windowsills,

Summer bells ring out,

But there’s despair about the roses,

They bloom and prepare to die,

Wondering if all the months alive were any different at all.

Do I hope beyond treatments nature?

Where options are consumed, so few,

And the one poor letter remains unrealised,

And closure takes away,

It takes me away to close them all.

A desperate attempt to willingness,

Falling upon the cards on windowsills,

Smoke rises high above the trees,

But no one’s there to see,

I witness you alone,

Wonder if maybe you appreciate the beauty of oxygen.

I see them walking off,

Two colours that do not blend,

Apathy for the hands held tight,

converts to truth,

and takes form beyond its lifeless apprehension.

The uncomforting love of your smile,

Seated but still tender by my side,

We are altered, in quiet passing time,

And affections matter little.

Begin to stoop those low eyes to one side,

under satins misuse, and chalky water,

and a dozen cups of air.

You I aim to please,

Beyond pleasure itself,

Beyond recognition of myself.

I feel as if my eyes are closing,

And the light seems brighter seeping through,

And you aren’t there to witness,

Our hearts abide by rules.

Our hearts abide by rules.

Standing a chance is better when seated.

There are times in which,

The grave robbers leave their treasures,

And you and I are a touch enough so close,

As to our misgivings, our reservations,

Does the ink I write you in taste nice?

Too easily renewed to a comfortable silence,

You are incomparable at best,

But standing a chance is better when seated.

Apologies, but you know I meant to be indifferent,

And like our time, held unsteady,

Which alteration finds.

The conversation, the telephone,

The early morning seems brighter with you here,

And I have incentive.

Too easily renewed to a comfortable silence,

You are incomparable at best,

But standing a chance is better when seated.

These images are self explanatory,

A bag of arrows and a bow,

We hang freely on the stairwell,

And I mimic the glance you take,

Then lie to cover my footprints in the sand.