For seven months I drank my tea at the window and allowed the sun to cast its rays over my resolution.
I gazed at the space between but never directly into my neighbours house
for I knew the indifference that awaited me in her window of enmity.
During the seventh month my love swelled and pooled at my fingertips, restless with those un-penned words of indignation,
And so I gazed into her window.
Bleeding from my freshest wound,
just rage unfurled into bitter poems,
reruns of us,
of when you offered the belly of my dignity to feed your enemies, revealed a vengeance owed to me,
not of retribution
but of justice.
During the eighth month I wrestled love and grief, rage and memory,
to save you,
to save you from the recklessness my pain threatened to uncage.
I allowed the waves of your betrayal to break over me and pull me back into the sea of childlike grace within myself.
I did not emerge cleansed, pure, or resolved.
Victorious over my animal lust for vengeance,
yet unsatiated in surrendering my desire to deliver you to the same gallows where you made a pariah of me.
And conflicted with answerless questions.
Is vengeance the natural harbinger of karma and therefore my gentleness; justice interrupted?
Is my enduring love my weakness or my courage?
.

Stillness took his rain-soaked boots
off at the door
And entered my house

I made him tea
In an old coffee -stained mug
With a bag.

He holds no pretension
‘Whatever you have right now,
is enough’. He said

He can’t stay. He tells me,
There are dishes to do.
But he will be back

‘When it’s raining’ he says
‘And there is no laundry to do.’
‘We’ll have tea.’

Infamy
An attempt to cheat mortality
And live forever

an effigy
Uranus, his jester privilege
The worm that turns

Infinite streams
An inner world
Which is?

Formless, Limitless
aurelian thread;
Immortality’s proxy.

Stoic pines are uprooting,
Careless rage
of an indifferent wind.
And when the nerves are exposed
It dies in spent shudder, to our stupefied awe and vulnerable repose.

That savoury love,
That familiar comfort, a home cooked meal.
The reliable morning texts and midday calls
My warm, rounded, sleepy belly.
That sweet love,
That longed for joyful treat, my childlike excitement
The tender kiss on my forehead
My wonderment, my gentle hope for more
That sour love,
That acrid seizure, my face contorted in shock The lingering invisible betrayal
My confused tastebuds, their longing for dissipation
That bitter love,
Those biting words, our requited animosity
The weaponising of our failings
My aggrieved mouth and her repugnant venom.
That hot love,
The picnic of your mouth by the ocean
The heated liminality before each kiss
Our frenetic and impermanent fire.

Tidal Heart.
Not coveting nor conquering
As much grasping a reckless shore as lost to the feral depths.
Tidal heart of mine,
as much bursting light at the seams, as ice cold hubris.
My warm friend
My cold friend
A contradictory lover And an inconsistent foe
My honest and two left footed tidal heart with her syncopated solitude.
This is fate for me.

Ephemeral winter
Dead grass & springs flowers at her feet.
The bees are making honey while the rot gets ate by flies.
No betterment of heart in a body full of lies.