And so it goes
that you fade
as quickly
as your
colour
shows.

You turn
your face
skyward,
like
a flower
seeking
the warmth
of the
fading
September sun.
Truly, love,
you are
the most
exquisite
thing
the earth
has ever
grown.

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.

We could run through
deserted streets
in the watery sun
of a Wednesday morning,
my face full
of last night's
make up
and
your mouth full
of last night's
kisses,
and I would
swear
to all who would listen
that
we had never looked
so ******* cool.

There are many
words of advice
I could give you:
Trust those who deserve it.
Be honest,
but never cruel.
Do not allow yourself
to be pushed around.
Do not be afraid
to stand for something.
Take time to understand
before rushing to judge.

But above all else,
I would say this;
forgive yourself.
It is not your fault
that the world is harsh,
that lovers leave,
that cold hearts
so often prevail
over the pure.
*Forgive yourself.

You cannot
remember
my name
or
look me
in the eye,
but you can
take off
my dress
and
right now
that's
good enough.

I
loved
him.
Sometimes
he
loved
me.

You ask
why
the wanderlust,
why
the love of leaving?
I say
maybe
I am just
trying to find
somewhere
your ghost
cannot
haunt me.

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.

I left hairs on your pillow
‘accidentally’,
in the hope that just once,
you might dream about me.

After
a period
of recovery,
I am
sick with you
again.
The fever
burns to the bone
and
makes me
see things
that cannot
be.
Love
is
killing me
slowly,
one
poisoned heartbeat
at a time.

Put simply,
you are
an
adrenaline shot
to
a heart
that
I thought
could never
beat again.

You and I
are
scar tissue
that
I worry
and pick
and pull
endlessly,
and yet
I still
cry out
in shock
and pain
when
I cause us
to bleed
again.

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.

The sunburst
of your
smile,
so casually
dazzling,
holds
a universe
of hopeful
promises.

His body,
I recall,
was a
smoking gun;
warm
to the touch,
but never knowing
where
or
when
the bullet
would bite.

I am
malleable,
changeable,
I shift my shape
with almost
every breath.
So tell me
what you want, love,
and I will be her,
as best I can.
Draw her lines
and I will fill them.
Select her colours
and I will wear them.
Write her words
and I will speak them.
As best I can.

I don’t know when
an inch became a canyon
my fingertips cannot cross,
a no mans land
I cannot claim.

You may as well be worlds away.

For some,
life
is simply
an experiment
to see
how many
knives
and
arrows
to the back
one person
can take
and remain
standing.

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.

You tell me
baby,
I will only
break your
heart.
I tell you
honey,
it's adorable
that you think
I still
have one
left
to break.

I
will
never
abandon
the
hope
that
tomorrow
will
be
better.

Dear one,
the nights
I have spent
bloodying my knees
screaming
Heaven help me
to a God
I do not
believe in,
waiting for
you -
soft as
a psalm -
to pull me
from
my devils.

And so
I took my
broken heart,
bloodied
and
abused,
in my own hands
and
I promised it:
'Never again'.

And so
I let
the constant
icy fear
of his
leaving me
colour my heart
so blue,
he eventually
had little choice
but to do
just that.

Four
punches
and
I am
down:
I.
Don’t.
Love.
You.

You would not
let me past
the stone wall
that surrounds
your heart,
but
you let me
climb it,
sit atop it,
and
briefly glimpse
the beautiful tragedy
that lay beyond it.
And maybe
that was enough.

Beware
of nostalgia,
for it is
a liar;
it bends
the past
like a prism,
casting
colours
onto the shadows
of how
it truly was.