we could be your paint box,
     whistling -
               down -
the faded margin of,
my lined paper.

from puffs of cerulean blue,
to a teaspoon of burnt umber,
half-stirred with a wooden spoon,
we could paint a supernova

                           ...go ahead passing souls
glance and say:
'What clashing tones!
What a mess they are bound to make.'

but listen my little russet-eyes:
for the grass will never be,
greener on the other side,
when we are every hue of green;
when we are all the colours.

Remember the iron cage
When dreaming of drifting
Through the milkyway with her
Sweet talking through nebula lit nights

When etching promises
Into the garden fence
With ruby red ink
Remember the way
She ties you up and drains your blood
And chips shards from your bones
To sculpt her pens

My heart made a promise to myself,
To gift you a love song,
But it tore no holes to whisper sweet nothings from.

My heart played dead in your grief,
When your mother passed,  
As I begged for it to strum and let the rivers gush past.

My heart sensed every blunt knife,
As you stabbed at my armour,
I cushioned it between us, but they only grew sharper.

To me,
My words,
Are my thoughts.
Milk in a pan drifting,
Lazily in mexican waves,
On tiptoes with fingertips,
Stroking the three litre line.

to you
my words are
the time you blinked
and clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes
and a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind
and a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift  into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second