i saw two lovers on the Underground.
who's entwined arms
held the carriage aloft.
who's secret smiles
lit the tunnel as if the Sun
had broken through the Earth.
and whispers
cut through the brakes
like a knife through my heart.
i did not know such love existed.
i do not know if i am meant to share.

i saw two lovers on the Underground
and it made me question
is my love fair?

i should have pleaded for a longer sentence
at least we’d be talking.

this space
filled with placeholders
like mannequins
like first drafts
like sketches
.
that weightless non-committal
holding together of not
functional
being
.
there was no space for something substantial
no space for something
tangible
.

You replied you were afraid.


“i didn’t ask for all of this love-
</3
-and yet it’s still not enough.”

to the lovers
who use this site to tell us their stories
"Insert Title"
Your love is magnanimous
is gorgeous pure and beautiful
but
"Insert Title"
some search for "real poetry" about life or death or something
philosophical, so let them say
"Insert Title"

and as someone who has had their heart broke?
its ok.
this place isn't a democracy, we all don't get a vote
and to anyone who thinks i agree with
"Insert Title"

"Insert Note"

I now can see
that We are not the "We"
I wanted us to be.
But that's fine!
Cause, even if its
"Just you" and "Just me"
we love;
honestly.
I've now learnt- to expect is okay
and rejecting too.
Its all irrelevant anyways
cause I'll still love you!

You get to tell me.
TIME HEALS ALL
When the crater rewinds its fall,
all that heat and ash it left
floats into the rift.
                                                              |        Adrift.       |
You get to tell me.
THAT LOVE LOST
*******.
When the poems i poured forth
turn to life and sit
comforting me.
Mourning.

YOU GET  TO TELL ME
whatever the hell you want.
Who says i'm listening
anyway

dancing on our tiptoes
arms among clouds
our throats turned to birdsong
and eyes star-bound.

How Could We Return To Earth.

soon though
as want to do
our fuel ran cold.
sparks to splutters to shudders to crawls to fingernails dragging the atmosphere
           back
down
           with
us.

clipped wings
our shoes seem so heavy
"I want to be rooted"
"I want to be planted"
"I want to be free."
*"Before I dream of what the sky-"

The Ensemble
is greater than any
Single
part.
Because:
If one Actor ***** up
they're a bad Actor.
However;
If the Ensemble ***** up
they're a bad Company.

When we started
i
was the loudspeaker.
You
the reverb;
resounding, resounding.

When we started
u
was the lever.
I
the pulley;
up and up.

When we started
WE
were the smiles;
THEY
the frowns.

it just keeps escaping me.
when the candles burnt out so too I expected the shadows.
but after the heartache I still feel the burn of no goodbyes and hellos.
still I feel the lack of care
I feel something that wasn’t ever there.

the monitor flickers
occasionally
like flashes of inspiration
or defeat

the keyboard and mouse
remain unmoved
like ruins

my mountain of a PC
lies dormant
awaiting some bubbling of activity
to stir itself awake

taken to typing poetry
on the phone
to detangle myself from
that cage i once called a home

Speak the words
you let lie in your throat,
the spiteful synonyms
these cruel anecdotes.
Trap me with a ***** look
you cast my way,
let your insults hook
all of my willingness to stay.
Inevitably you can find
another reason to say nothing,
yet I can only remain to be kind
for the sake of merely having something.

it's 12:44 in the morning, which I guess really makes it 0:44am but I can only remember our argument over whether 24 beats 12. justification became second nature in dialogue not anything agreeable seemed to come out from our words. then again if agreeability was something I could relate too, i wouldn't be writing poetry. at least i sound somewhat honest. its relatable i know that much, it's rare not to find someone who hasn't  

spent the nights and mornings thinking about regrets- except you of course- and I'm hoping that this will be some sort of exorcism as i didn't let the frankenstien friendship die in my heart like it did in yours.

I'm still listening to the songs.
I'm still learning the words.
I'm still singing them by myself.
*so did anything really change.

i guess

meaning no more

is somewhat better than;

meaning nothing, anymore.

burn the remaining parts
of this paper heart.

Don't look!!
a blossoming sun, sets
but
You'll burn brighter.

i cried three times
in your bathroom.
once because you told me i'd never be first in your heart,
second because you knew i'd still try,
third because you told me to go,
but i didn't know how to say goodbye.

force your words into my mouth
veins of vowels constricting around vocal chords
and the consonants crushing
my windpipe.

start to understand the violence alongside the language.

this must be what space tastes like
talking in de-oxygenated tongues,*
but behind your smile is a sight
*I'm left  lovestung.