Weary eyed disappointment shines through the blue
in an attempt to quell my spirit.
6 weeks between us, yet you are as old as time.

I am not sorry for your frustration,
it stirs my ***** to see your distress
at my half-smile.

I offered you warning, long before gold was shared.
I told you I'd be hard to hold,
spelled out my weakness,
held aloft all flaws.

Still you lept at my flame,
seeking to contain it within your covetous palm,
to mold me with your priceless wisdom,
your righteous idea of who I could be,
should be....would be.

A me without a trace of self is your desire.
A shell filled with your vision of perfection.

A stay at home
Lay at home wife.

Last night you said that you had made me a better person,
while I sat and wondered at your breathing
in the hope that it would stop.

Do not take my silence as compliance.

Invoke the gods
darling
& sit
in reverence
on my prayer-mouth,
let me taste
your invocation,
you and me,
we are the creation.

Play your sad guitar a while
that I may sing for thee
of words that sit within my heart
and technicolour dreams.

Play a tune of broken wings
now healed by tender hands
brought to flight by friendship strong
and moons in distant lands.

Harmonise with me this night
let music be our guide,
you see my soul in different light,
through darkness, where I hide.

Then I'll lift up my song to thee
the sweetest ever heard
and raise my voice in thanks once more
to friendship, love and words.

Moved by ungracious deeds,
minds lost in wedded eyes.
Sanity is overrated....
Sin is not.

You crystal ballroom, all windows and walls, sewing light like seed over everything you touch.
Glass eyed stare, hands growing like they're getting away with something.
Everything you love is a trick of the light.
Everything it touches feels just like you.
Hiding heads under street-lamps like sin is some sort of choice we make, like growing is something to be done in silence.
They say that people in glasshouses shouldn't throw pebbles, but how can you expect to let people in if you can't even get out?

My grandmother looks straight though me, thoughts locked in, hands clamped around her bag of dead friends like holding them tight enough could bring them back. 
She tells me how full of life I am. I want to tell her how we all carry echoes around in our pockets but I don't think she'd understand.

And I just want to call you. Hand you everything I have like:
'Here's the dirt from under my nails. Call it apology. I hope it finally makes something grow'
'Here's that poem I never finished. Here's to hallelujah. Here's to all your leaving'
'Here's my storm cloud. Here's my salt spray.  Here's my window all dusted and bruised. I don't know how else to tell you that I have loved you in all four seasons'.

Everything you love will one day become sandstorm, cliff face, the blunt edge of a knife.
One day it won't be you holding the match.

Everything you love will turn back to dust
Everything you love will turn back to light

Because you'd stayed for a while
Because you'd made my head your favorite place
A library, or a cave, you'd said

The idea of you had completed me
But there's no such thing as a complete library so
I am no longer your favorite

And a cave, I made my head a cave
For you to live in but
You aren't a caveman