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Aoife Aug 2018
I’ve missed you before you were even here.

There have been too many a night spent imagining who you are, how you must be like. Wondering the sound of your voice, would you giggle or cry. Or call out my name. Wishing a whiff of your hair and your skin, soft to the touch; ever softer still to the longing of my heart that you would melt away when I opened my eyes.

There have been too many a night spent talking about you. It would be my most favourite thing to do. I could spend hours talking about someone I wish I knew. I could spend hours would that my body needed no rest nor my mind needed no quiet. I could spend hours in peace, thinking of you with love and misery knowing that that would be the closest I would ever be to you.

I have spent years waiting for you. I must have spent a lifetime wishing the touch of your soul was real.
Aoife Aug 2016

That's what it sounds like in my mind
when people disappear;
when you no longer get to see them
you no longer get to know them
because you no longer exist to them.

Like magic.
A great Houdini act.
Black magic.

In that puff of smoke
that billow and wisp and dissipate
before my mind's eye
I see the strands snap, one by one, in the heat.

My thoughts race through galaxies
at a speed to beat sunlight from reaching the earth first.

'Was it easy to just disappear?'

'Just like that?'


'What did I do wrong?'

'Why is it always me?'

'Was I not worth at least word?

Not even the effort of a breath?'

I used to think that that all had mattered,
that I wanted all those important answers
to all those petty questions
until I realized that it might be too late...

I froze in horror at the smell of smoke
of a fire that had been spreading,
crashing down all around me
in waves of liquid fire
that looked cool as ice.

My bridges were burning.

I didn't know I had lit a torch.
3am thoughts.
Aoife Aug 2016
There has been a riot in the streets
a hustle of talk,
and gossip, and rumours
wonders of who was behind all those doors.

Every now and then
there'd be a new door on the street
a door that leads to nowhere.

Some nights it'd be a nice new door,
with a stained glass window
or a thick coat of paint.

Other nights it'd be just a ratty old one,
looking like splinters held together by the sheer will
of the painter.

The artist.

There have been talk of
where those doors might possibly lead to;
Wonderland, perhaps.
Narnia, maybe.
Hell, some say, coz it's the Devil's door.

I brush those thoughts away
when I watch the brush carefully
making sure to get the details just right.
Been feeling a little edgy tonight.

I decided to make it simple tonight;
nothing fancy,
nothing showy,
nothing fierce.
A simple wooden door.

Some people call me crazy,
scrambled in the head,
coz I paint doors onto brick walls
night after night.

That I do, night after night,
with emptiness and hope,
waiting for the day something good
will break through those walls,
and through the cracks of the doors I've painted.

That the impossibly good will find us.
3am thoughts.
Aoife Aug 2016
I stand cold and shallow
under the smallest shine of light
and so very often
all I can do is look silently back at you.

Perhaps I reflect you,
the way, in any way,
your eyes look into mine.

Perhaps in some way, I can feel
that cold burn of anger
seep under my skin
like third degree burns.

Perhaps I always knew
that needle of distrust
lodged in the small of my back
like a gentle touch of a lover's hand.

And rarely, I feel a warmth
break through the cool surface
and into the realm that is me;
whatever I am.

And only then, I realize,
I became.

Like a breath of life,
spring, and a new beginning;
perhaps finally I feel the touch of sunlight
and I bask in the warmth.

Your eyes try to hide
but I inadvertently see it all
the hot and the cold,
pins and knives and the lack of your shadow

I wonder which one of us demands it all back?
Beating against the surface to break it all free.
But never to save me.
To take it all back, and never to save me.

And when a shadow casts over me,
and you are no longer there,
I struggle in the cold
with memories of a warmth

A dilemma,
a constant battle,
a madness
and amidst it all, this mirror might shatter.
Aoife Jun 2016
A tingle, a spark, a shock
an excitement in the air
settles in my lungs
and surges through my veins.

A quiver, a tremble, a tremor,
vibrations shook my heart,
electrifying, stupefying,
stopped me cold.

A moment so small it was barely there,
but I'd caught it.
A voice in my head
an intuitive grasp at thin air.

My grip so tight, I can barely breathe.
My lungs, my heart.
A moment so small, it had a massive hold on me.
A moment so fleeting, it stayed with me forever.
Aoife Jun 2016
I had foolishly mistaken
Your kindness

I had foolishly believed
That life was finally beginning

I had foolishly wanted
So much to belong

But you
The last person I'd ever expect

Proved me wrong.
Aoife Mar 2016
Like tyrants bellowing, roaring, thrashing and pillaging.

Like volatile waves in a storm,
brawling among themselves for no prize.

Like the winds howling as if lost,
as if calling out for someone or something.

They’re all angry.

In the middle of it all, there you stand. And you scream.

You scream till your face turns red, till every muscle in your body tenses up; you go on till there’s not a breath left in you. Then and only then will they hear you.

The tyrants ceased. The waves settled and the winds stopped.
They watch you expectantly; the heat of their anger still burned within them.

You catch your breath and you burn right back at them.
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