The low yellow
moon above the
Quiet lamplit house.

Was I supposed to Stop because you weren't there?
Was I supposed to Stop walking because you couldn't hold my hand?
Was I supposed to Stop painting because you couldn't be the  first to see my work?
Was I supposed to Stop living because you weren't the first one I saw after a good day?
Was I supposed to Stop loving because I wasn't loving you?
Just Stop, because I can't.

Or maybe it was the wine.

They drank it like kings as if their French vintages could hide their infantile laughs.  
As if they could cover up their scar stained arms.

For hangovers end but their blood stained memories will not go away with more *****, with more money, with more "friends". And they are lonely.

Their money bought them love, and their ***** brought them friends. But now the bottles empty and they’ve been told one too many times that love never lasts.

They’ve found another bottle now.

They’ve found another excuse to celebrate.

But soon enough, they will bee drinking alone.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

She took my hand and followed me
through the trees,
under the archway made of ivy
(flanked by pristinely carved hedges)
into the vast, open field
which met the ethereal red sun
on the horizon.

We sat in the fresh grass,
cool in the evening air.
All the while we stayed silent,
just admiring the untouched space.
Each blade of grass before us
swayed gently,
tantalisingly...

Time had stopped
but everything was still living.
Still moving.
As if this place were not included
in Time's perseverance.  
I didn't want it to be,
it was too important to me.

It occurred to me then
that it wasn't this place
that I valued the most at all
It was this moment.

And I captured it.

You are so incredibly, imperfectly, beautiful that it amazes me to how oblivious you are to it.

Maybe its the way your eyes light up when you talk about what you love. I know that look, its the look of a kid on Christmas Day.

Or maybe its your lips. Like rose petals they pin themselves back, showing your teeth.  As you scrunch up your nose, you give that whole hearted laugh. I'm not sure if your laughing at me, or at the moment. I guess I don't really care, I'll take what I can get.

And I've seen you at your worst. I've tried catching you. But my big eyes are not a substitute for my small hands. So maybe I'll just fall with you instead. Besides, isn't the view so much more beautiful form where you can see the whole sunset. Though you say you haven't seen the sunset in while. But, you see it everyday in the mirror. Everyday, the purples and reds and oranges reflect onto the world off your eyes.

Your eyes are funny like that. You wear that mask like its your job, but your eyes never stop telling the truth. You can't fool me, not even with the mask. I know your lies. And then there is your hands. Like velcro they seem to want to interlock with mine.

You have big hands. They can catch. Which is good. I'm terribly clumsy. I'm good at falling.

I'm often delusional
I always assume
That in a world of tight spaces
they'll always make room
For the one undeserving
Who makes most mistakes
I always assume
That all that it takes
Is one more shot
One more day off
Because tomorrow I'll go back
And it will all pay off
But then there's all of the make ups
There is no restart
I'm not just delusional
I'm falling apart

My artwork is clutter
My novel is ****
My poetry's raw
And that's pretty much it.
That's all that there is
That's all I can do
And all this time I've been blaming you.
But the fact is
That's not what hurts the most
It's not that you are gone
It's just my soul's become a ghost

Heartbreak?

what the hell have I been talking about
all this time?

Have I ever thought of the true heartbreak
felt by the loved ones of the soldiers
sent over seas to fight
for spoiled people like me.

Heartbreak?

ha, yeah right...
I don't know the word

Not when I see little kids
who's dad's are fighting
across a wide and stormy sea.