Morning. Freshly breathing, wet lungs.
I catch a glimpse of you through frosted windows
Shoulders, hair, in profile. Wearing white.
Those hours - just before sunrise, half awake, lucid in the grey;
in those dreams you shy away from my touch,
and stare at me with tawny eyes.
I wish I knew what you were thinking
I wish I could stop checking you're still there.

I linger in our fragility. Knitted cotton hearts.
You're fresh blood in me, you glitter under my skin
Breaking apart in my eyesight  -
Yet I knit poetry out of your lingering fingertips.

I think myself a Venus. Standing glittering
mirror reflecting in peach pink
Opalescent in hip bones, soft thighs,
A love good and gold.
Self love. So pure!
Run my long fingers through cotton sheets
And soft hair
Reckless in my own body.
Comfortable here, thanks.

First light brings with it
an empty town to play in.
You, wild-eyed and messy haired
Mixed up words and inside jokes
Walk three steps ahead of me, and explain
How you've pulled the pockets from your jeans because you hate the thought of carrying anything with you.
Splintered grass between your fingertips
Makes me feel young again.
I run between trees with you
and we pull down branches to see
How far they bounce back.
It is hours before I realize I've dropped the act.

I don't desire to touch you
But when you laugh I feel the warmth
healing the black and blue bruises inside me.
Touch the afternoon sunlight
ravel it round your fingertips
and drag it down to your cheek.
You are entirely made of stars.

Fourteen years ago, I planted a rose in my garden.
It grows twisted, against the fence, and bursts into bloom come June -
From my window I feel it glowing
soft pink in the light of the waxing and waning moon
It is my August nymph. And stuns me in brimming scarlet.
But the moon rises like the tide in wet ochre
And my body reeks of iron and emptiness -
The end of the lunar cycle draws closer
And petals fall apart, loose from the bud -
I must learn to accept that my body yearns to spit back blood.
Like crimson. Velvet crimson roses.

I've come to recognize the scent of dying flowers
almost to the hours - Sweet honeyed rotting from within
The decay of rosy innards and floral resin
God punishes all things beautiful with transience.
What a thing to leave a rose to chance...
But all flowers must die in order to grow again!

You would not think that porcelain could rot
But girls and roses share a lot;
And for summer flowers to be sweet and fresh
Blossoms bleed more than you thought.

I came home - alone - because I finally realized your soul is stone.
Thing is, it's kinda hard to get rid of that rigid smell of cologne -
It's easier to get you off my phone.
I think I had the chance to leave, and I didn't
I stayed and now I wish I hadn't
Because now I'm at a party, waiting for you to talk to me, and you haven't -
Nights are cold, and boring, and I tried to call you, but I couldn't -
I keep applying and reapplying lipstick like you care but you do not.
You don't.
I implore you, to bore me more - Id've come round that night I knew it was so important...but I didn't
And now every boy and girl looks through me.
I saw someone Wednesday.... and I thought it was you ...but it wasn't.
I mightn't of met you in the first place if the universe would give me a chance but it won't
And now I'm stuck in this poetic trance
Your face no longer traces inspiration and I've lost the information that lead me to believe in you.
I used to believe in us, but now I don't.
And now I can't write poetry, mostly .
If you look at me closely, my muse is almost ghostly
That's what you've done to me.
I'm sickly, grossly.
Evidently ghostly, if I stay a few more months maybe you can have my bones as a trophy.
I'm not in love.
I'm just... hesitating  
And while your descent into frustrating is captivating
This month has been devastating.

Warm evenings bring a slow haze of conversation.
The moon, rolling on the waves,
has pulled the tide right back to the horizon
Exposing wet flatlands of sand and a rocky skeleton
That crawls in the darkness, like figures on the beach below.
Rosé wine and boredom
Keeps me checking my phone for you to tell me you've arrived.