We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Almost.

No one wants to buy a poetry book
Of an unknown poetess
Who does she think she is?
Collecting words on pages
Words that are revealing white spaces
Pages that are meticulously numbered
No one wants to buy a poetry book
That appeared out of the blue
To claim its pages carries poems
Are they good enough?
Perhaps a line, or two...
No one wants to buy a poetry book
What would they find in it?
Dreams unfulfilled or pains that still bleed
No one wants to buy a poetry book
That grew like the freshest blade of grass
Fragile and hidden in the cruel moss
No one wants to buy...

You can't hold a hand that already let go

I didn't push you away,
I actually wanted you to stay.
It was so easy for you to blame.

I cared,
But now I'm too scared.
Scared of love, commitment.

I turn my face to the light
But the low winter sun
Is shrouded in unmoving clouds
Offering no warmth at all
The trees are stark and naked
Like jagged skeletons
With ragged crows hovering
And the world is breathless

For this winter
This of all winters
The air is crowded and heavy
With the ghosts of the painful dead
Their accusing eyes searching
For those whose negligence
In the blast of a plague
Caused their breathless deaths

                                         By Phil Roberts