It would be me to drag you onto the dance floor not knowing how to actually dance-
Resorting to kissing instead.
Things work differently in my head and you are living proof that
They always work out in the end
(More or less.)

You are my dream but like none I have ever had before,
Or indeed could ever dream of having;
You are incredible and make me
Unbelievably happy.

There is just something about you.
And by something I mean everything but
'Something' is one of your favourite songs so I thought I had better put that in for the sentiment.
I am nowhere near as clever as you and
I am trying to keep up:
One poem at a time.

Are we underneath a diamond sky
Or simply in the sky with diamonds?
No matter.
     (Stuff like that does not matter.)
It is a beautiful notion, but unbearably quaint,
Just like the idea of making Love wait.

If your sweetness could be poured into a glass,
I would drink every last drop of it and be rid of
This bitter taste in my mouth- the very same that
Taints the buds of youth to misconstrue my perception of:
'What is hazard and
What is beauty?'

Each thought of you releases a butterfly from its golden cocoon and
Every time one lands on my skin, I invite it to drink nectar deep from within.
In other words:
I no longer reach for the leeches as soon as I wake up- I no longer feel the need to bleed-
Because I have been sleeping on a bed of daisies ever since we met and,
Even as I continue to fall,
It does not hurt.
You are my dream.

I emerge from the forest and an inevitable sense of insignificance overwhelms me.
The stars blow my mind,
They live without my time.
What we see is already dead and some of that legacy lives on within my being,
Yet I will never be regarded as special or as beautiful as them;
They are the uncontrollable apple of your eye.

Why don't they need our love, those stars?
Part of me thinks they just don't want it.
How can they possibly live without the warmth of society's recumbent limbs?
(For even when all humans unite, are we weak)

Maybe they have dissociated themselves from us.

All we do is dim them down
With our light pollution and our ****** rows,
To the point where some aren't even visible within the sky-
Or within the likes of you and I.

We gaze at the stars
-We look at them in adoration-
But they will never do the same.

We are but nothing like them.

I'm frequently told to
'Stop and smell the roses'-
I have hay fever.
If I were to stop, I would no longer be moving so
My mind has more time to fill itself up with the little thoughts,
The ones I'm walking the streets to forget.
Rose is one of my favourite scents but
Every time I try to take it in
My cheeks swell and my eyes water;
I'll just stick to being a walker.

I wasn't aware of this, but
The nose must play an important role
In the improvement of mental health because
I am also told to
'Wake up and smell the coffee'-
I don't want to wake up
And I can't get out of bed,
(Could you just bring me a coffee, instead?)
It might inspire me.

Within the cover of night I am sitting;
Lying;
Crying
-Doing anything other than sleeping-
In bed thinking about what if somebody told me to
'Wake up and smell the roses',
****
Myself?
Surely it's a death sentence
To do a combination of the two
That I have already explained
I cannot,
Will not
Do?

Today, however, I did attempt to smell those roses
And I bought myself a latte, too.
But all I could taste and smell was ash,
Which made me panic
Because it felt like I was burning alive and
I liked that.
Now I understand that cigarette smoke can sometimes be so potent, that it
Drowns the soul.

Tobacco is, in fact, a substance of which I feel I can relate to:
It's grown;
Briefly nurtured;
Removed;
Dried;
Packaged;
Labelled (with a warning);
Used by many and
Lastly,
Set alight by a temporary flame;
Used up in a puff of smoke.

I could hear the echo of a ****** closing in, but from which direction
I could not for the life of me tell.
The caws and cries soothed my soul
And my eyes were closed,
So that I could immerse myself in a Yorkshire breeze
That gently brushed itself past the timeless trees.

With my wake came the crows
-Of which restored my sanity-
And each wingbeat brought yet another colour to the dusky sky,
As if time were something that could be carried.
A magpie,
A reminder of home,
Perched itself upon a fallen post and rattled furiously at how temporarily tranquil
I had become.

Then a charming mist made its way across the valley
But this only enhanced the clarity of my current surroundings.
The clouds in front of me began to wisp and merge like cigarette smoke against an ever-dimming lightbulb-
That reminds me,
I still need to get that fixed.

I noticed that my neighbours were cows,
Which I saw as a treat and a rarity,
Not in any way as a delicacy to be consumed and exploited for the good of humankind-
I digress.
Not the cows that I see everyday at, say, sixth form or in
Human form.
No, the cows that I usually see in packs
On supermarket shelves;
On butchers' racks
Before the people that behold them with hungry, selfish eyes.

As I gazed in this melancholy daze I knew that I would begin to miss the sight of those unsuspecting beasts from the minute I got back to where I was from-
To where I was born to live,
Unlike those in the fields that are
Born to die.
So then I swore to myself that I would never again
Look outside.

When lost in thoughts of you and I,
The men on deck say 'that ship has sailed'
But the destination is never specified
And I am not told if, on board, we failed.

-There is no use in saying 'we' or 'you'
The land keeps her by fetter
Yet she, captive, retains that cheerful hue
As if, without me, her life were better-

Her eyes were beach jewels that glistened and her gaze enthralled me- on the day before I left.
I saw her tame the wild white horses with a smile,
But that amazement, I am now bereft;
I did not know the sea would part us this long while.

I fear that, although the ship sails light,
My sickened dark, heavy heart
Will make it sink throughout some night,
And then, if it were possible, her and I would be further apart.

The ocean is vast, enigmatic, deep,
But ten times less so than Love;
I am, it seems, firmly in Brizo's keep,
Yet in my dreams I am free to see my Dove.

I am weary, and have lost sight of that 'ever-fixed mark'-
The one monument to be our guide-
I cannot see anything in the dark,
But in the whispers I hear, I can confide.

Not even the constant hiss and roar can drown out the Siren Song
That tempts to pull me under,
My thoughts will fight against the throng
And shake the sea like thunder.

It is ironic, Salvador, because
I am afraid of many things in the world and when I am with you I feel safe,
Yet your company is the one thing I am afraid of most.
I know that I love and need you more than you will ever love and need me and that
One day you will be free
With another woman and I will be
Left paying for my sins against God and
My rights against the state.

I thought that our love would have no limits;
You said that I am a Christian storm but
I know that you can brave this tempest and
Save me from myself.

I am a poet, Salvador, but
Whenever I sit down to try to write a poem about you,
Or even just how I feel about you,
I am unable to because
I am lost for words.
I can no longer express myself.  

I remember the beach.
We would lie there for hours
And on its sand we would kiss not just with our lips but
With our eyes.
The water will miss our visits,
Its body seldom taken by another-
As opposed to being constantly engulfed by two artistic lovers.
I have received my seaside medicine
-Via touch of tongue
And word of hand-
But have come to the realisation that you have in fact
Poisoned me.
I shall never be cured now.

The smoke from silent guns has already risen but
I am severed from the call to a fight with myself;
A conflict to choose between God
and you,
Despite the fact that you are the same.
You distract me from every focus-
Even though we are miles apart;
Even though you have replaced my words with your art,
You have broken me, yet
You make me
Whole.

Where is your warmth now, Salvador?
I am alone by the sea trembling with the cold
That you swore I would never feel again.
The winter will devour me as a result of your failing to relight the fire that is supposed to
Ignite me.
You promised me life with a portrait machine
But in all honesty
What I really want to be
Promised with is your faith,
In me.

The only warmth I get is in a cup of tea-
Sometimes coffee if I'm particularly flat-
For the neglect and thirst makes me
Cold.
I'm a ******
-By choice-
Who wishes to sell herself to men and women
Not for money
But for physical contact and some kind of
Love
No matter how devaluating.