Sit for a while
in the midnight garden,
flicking matches
onto wet grass.
The poetry
of idle conversation
trips off my tongue
with the ease
you always
inspired.
The low hum
of young blood
and
your thumb
gripped tight
in my palm.
It is a good life
I think.

We are not pretty,
I’m sure you’ll agree.
Paintings will not be hung of us.
Ballads will not be sung of us.
They will not speak of us
with hushed reverence
and dreamy smiles.
We will not be
the benchmark
by which
all other lovers
are measured.
They will not like us.
But by God
they will remember us.

The air grows thick
as the last eye closes.
Amongst steady
slow breaths,
I hold mine.
You.
Me.
Finally.
****.
Here goes nothing.
Here goes every last ******* thing.
Because if there’s one thing in this life
that I know to be true,
it’s that friends make lovers
in darkened rooms.

My words
to you
are like knots;
an impenetrable,
nonsensical
tangle,
unless you
pick
pick
pick
at them.
I know now
why they call it
‘tongue-tied’.

I think
there is an ocean in your chest.
Your eyes rain tears
and they fall in your mouth.
Yes, I think there must be.

And I let you spread.
And I let you sink.
And I let you cleanse
and clear
my storm cloud soul.
Lungs fill with a breath
long held.
I am nothing to you.
You are nothing to me.
And yet.

5:43 am.
Sunday.
Waking up
to crumpled sheets
and bruised knees,
birds nest hair
and ***** raw throats.
We are the eye
of our own storm.
You said
Kid,
we are the hurricane.