This spider's web
wasn't made to catch small flies
enough for sustenance.
The spiders had conspired
and wanted a web that could catch bigger prey.
Instead of thin tendrils of silk
the lines are made of secrets and lies and confused loyalties
designed to ensnare the unsuspecting victim
with the truth still fresh on their lips
and the shock still sharp in their eye.
But the spiders can't enjoy the catch
they too are entangled in the threads they wove.
This spider's web
is where spiders catch spiders.
You think
presents are promises
words are warrants
kisses are contracts -
but I give gifts
to conquer,
hold you in my debt,
and tell knots
twists of reality
that wouldn't hold up, Your Honor.
Can't you see how I crave loopholes,
how I search for them
in the arch of your lip
and the contours of your tongue?
Levantine Arabic speakers say 'Ta'abrnee'
rarely,
during an outpouring of emotion.
They say, people say, it means
'you bury me'
That death is preferable to living without.
You,
you buried me.
I should have written my last will and testament
the day we met,
noticed the light just ahead when your hand took mine.
It was all too late,
as I lay 6 feet-under with our first kiss.
You dug my grave -
I can't blame you,
- she pulled the trigger.
A silent assassin.
Who was ever so willing
to wrap me up in a shower curtain
pulled down in haste,
and hide what was left of us.
Did it work, my sweet?
Or did I
bury you too?
You're sitting wired up.
The white coat shifts past you and
there's a small beep; all the hairs on your arms stand to attention.
It's only the machine reacting
to your quickening heartbeat.
Surely there’s no need, sweetheart?
Name? (only a preliminary) You reply.
No sound
just the gentle murmuring of the machine.
It’s a start, I suppose.
A pen scratches across paper,
there's a biting silence as you squirm.
Is it uncomfortable, being watched? They're waiting.
I’m waiting.
Darling, why the damp forehead?
Your mouth twitches at the sting of words
as you try to swallow the lies
like cyanide.
If I could remember that first kiss,
I would always be reliving it
Veiled
by absinthe.
The ethanol already eroding the memory.
I would remember
The way your teeth tugged at my bottom lip
Inching me in.
Your hands, around my waist,
And your tongue cradling my fingers
When it wasn’t stroking mine.
We awoke the next morning,
bodies curving like a jigsaw.
My hair was dishevelled; yours, the same as always.
It was early,
all I wanted was to entwine my arms around you.
But the rest of the partygoers could see.
Our shield had evaporated
with the night
the memory.
All that remained was a hesitant dawn.
I don’t want to talk
about books anymore.
You favour a misty fantasy to the drudge of reality -
I know.
But I’m tired of fiction.
My bed is littered with it;
epic tales of
other lovers,
bowing with the weight of a thousand
a hundred thousand
lies.
Our talks on metre and rhyme have grown stale.
When will my melody, my enjambment
satisfy you?
Without the need for irksome words.
I want your lips to decipher mine –
No, I don’t want a pen.
I don't want whispered sonnets
or soliloquies any more.
Shakespeare shouldn't have to put the words into your mouth.
I want your breath,
not the remnants of his.
A kiss mustn't go in brackets or italics
behind the dialogue.
Render words redundant
Shh, no more.
Oh, I can not find the strength to edit us.
Over and over.
I want the original. I want the harsh truth.
And I want you to love it.
I don’t want another paper romance.
