You are, to me, like a spider.
When I move I can feel
your web tighten around me.

I am, to you, like a puppet,
You push, pull,
and I react.

You are, to others, nothing special,
Another face in the crowd,
A print in the sand.

You are, to me, blinding,
Startling and magic.
My vision dances when I look away.

I am, to you,
Expendable.
Unfortunate.
Ignorable.

Oh little piglet,
What have I done?
You're so still,
So soft,
So dry and clean and cold.
Where's the mud, wee infant swine?
The rolling, jumping, laughing mud?
You are too clean, little piglet.
You never knew mud.

I'm sorry, little piglet,
I have undressed you.
Your little coat, so pink and sunrise flushed.
Such a pretty coat!
But not strong enough for mud, it seems,
Oh little piglet.

They said you were born still, little piglet.
That a hole in your heart
let the life run out.

But I believe you could have run,
Fill the hole with terracotta mud
and run, little piglet.
Here,
I've opened the gate,

Goodbye, little piglet.

How many petals, did fall upon
The unforgiving floor?
To lie, in waste, and watch, as from
The sky came many more.
They represent, in springtime hues,
The Love that's never said.
Their patrons only see the blooms
As futures to be read.
They slowly rip from Nature's bones
Her brightly coloured clothes,
And pull apart her spreading buds,
For what they might propose.
The question, "does he love me now,
Or does he love me not?"
Is asked as petals slowly fall,
and in the darkness, rot.

I am
Reserved,
As though
Between the world
And me
There exists a void,
A canyon,
Miles of empty space to fall through.

But you
Are a thread
As strong as hope,
If only I could hold on
I know
You would join the gap,
Fill the space,
Build the bridge,
Reawaken me.