slighted fingertips
withdrawing from a near-fatal embrace
how does it feel?
to brush precariously
at the edge of something
infinitely beautiful;
to find the void
greeting you instead.

curled at waist height
or tied
to the belt loops of jeans
or smushed into pockets,
balled up
waiting for  another
chance to extend again.

there in the throes of night
unclenching, reclenching fists lay,
wondering

will the next time will be different
and
how will it feel?

body like a Hoplite,
raised from the dust to lay the land-
sent armed
ashen spear and heart,
trunks of armour clad legs
growing into the clay coloured Earth
rooted.

these lyre-heartstrings taut with longing.
to see
a browbeaten Myrmidon,
in daylight.

watch, as the breath of Zeus escapes
Grecian chests,
concave with muscle
Olympus itself exists within those crevices.

i lay offerings,
ambrosia soaked spoken word
at the under-flesh of your calf
laying beside myself
in hope the whispers bestowed to you from the Fates
on the eve of Troy
mean less with your lips, pressed to wine, against mine.

“have you ever felt love?” he asked

drinking
down
my
last one for the night
i replied,

like an atmosphere.

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

“fear
he who reaches into
the core of a heart
and makes
its cavities
music.”

two people embracing
on the potholed curbside,
a car splash-zone
loving,
risking the ire of the overzealous
parking monitor
on the off chance-
they remember what it meant
to cling onto someone else
heart rooted firmly in another.

saw             a                smile
caught on the c h a n n e l s
of the WiFi
like      w a v e s                    goodbye

cutthroat bed-warmer
i warned you.
to underhandedly procure
the duvet
in a dubious midnight heist
is a violation
of the “Pillow-Talk Three Truce”.
there are no second chances
in this
quilted coalition you concocted.
by daybreak, after a night of unrepentant tickling, kissing, or any some such
sleep disturbancing,
perhaps my arms will be laid down
in a show of piety.

to be the
little spoon by the afternoon.

the name I’m calling in the night
is the ghost of yours.
an apparition
wraith-like, transparent
against my lips.
whispered in the witching hour
alone in the dark,
to summon something
or you.

floor to ceiling windows
stacked two upon two
capillaries bursting with office work.

neon signs and patina streaked doors
opening up valves at lunch times
Pret A Manger bloodletting.

final call at The Angel
heralding the end of the work week
teams of cleaners flush the system
to restart for the following Monday.

calling a lost lover
to begin to head on over
this bedroom was only a boarding gate
and this bed your layover.

while scurrying in the underground
he walked like the caves connecting
the city was his birthright
like the current in the earth grounded him
the roaring trains
his adoring subjects

what a moment
brushing past a subterranean prince
glancing at granite jaw
his knowing smile
hands that could have carved a space
out of me.

i turned away as
to see the darkness of the tunnels
peering back at you on the platform
taunting you to jump
was not a commitment i could make.

kiss me so the vines in my veins can snake out to hold you

This     gap
between out lips as the kisses become longer
that     vital
intake of air to keep the love/boredom/sympathy/pity
alive    until
this is snuffed out in the hope of something tangible

THE TIME WE SPENT WAS BORROWED ON BAD CREDIT.

1. We both knew this
2. I didn't care
3. You saw this ending
4. An end that wasn't even fair

so now i'm not speaking and yet you still fight

cause you know that means i would win,
i would be right.

i haven't seen you stay in one place for more than a few days,
like laying some roots will result in some catastrophic meltdown
like being noticed will cause sirens to scream out
"i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted".

isnt this the point, to pop up shop and take what little charity those
who know what being loveless is like can provide. in short bursts a heart can be mended, the wounds sewn up and put up for sale like a clean bill of emotional health.

till the view begins to stagnate and the bones of all the half-healed ex-lovers begin to ache inside, the embers of a burnt out husk in the chest smoulders with the promise of "it'll be better elsewhere."

"they might want me elsewhere." "someone will love you elsewhere."

time can lighten the crushing loss of another.

Two lovers standing
parallel on a street
late in Shorditch
graffiti came billowing
out from their ankles
spray painting their distance
in moments
like a gap in a kiss
could paint murals.

it seems that all Love is,
is finding the snippets of those who once
we adored
in the bodies of strangers and hoping
this time it will be reciprocated.

i understand the Greeks
When they wrote of boys
turning to men as
“in the flush of their strength”.
as if the tides of youth,
had burst it’s banks
flooding childhood, like the Mycenae
against Troy.

coulda let you hold me close,
love saw something deeper I suppose.

we measured the time
by what infatuation took us
that year.
Year 7 was flittering
8 was unfounded
9 was groundbreaking but
10 was changing
Year 11’s love might still be reigning.

you never forget those 5 years.
even if you'd like too.

-a poets best and worst moment.

"i just thought the sky looked better behind you."

i spoke back into the echo
of an earlier cry
an
outburst of comfort
attempting
to heal the older me.

i dug my patch of dirt
with my fingers in repentance

this formality before the hurt
this action my penance.

like these roots that roam
far beyond their means

this heart can't be home
to any semblance of honesty it seems.

with the soil                              a cradle
weighing me down
i see a vision of a mottled crown
the coldness seeping in
and for growth to start somewhere within.