My father took me to the circus, once.
Pink candyfloss spun in a web of sugar cotton
and the acrobats whose contortions mystified my childlike eyes
Flames simmered and sparks flew,
like that little girl's smile when she learnt how to love.

She's older, now.
And her father doesn't take her to the circus
or the zoo
because she's too old for it.
And she thinks it's childish.

And really, she knows that time ticks,
no matter what,
but she is resilient,
her reflection warped by someone else's ideas.

She can't bring herself
to think of what she has left.

tear me out, blank this canvas
and begin a fresh page.

carve a new story from this tale,
walk a new mile on these feet

breathe new words into these lips
colour me in soft tones

light up this vessel in flame
burn me up, make me whole again

rebuild me, grain by grain
create new life in me, that i might be whole again

recraft me, into what i am supposed to be
light me up and set me free

write craft and care into these fingers,
a thousand native tongues spoken into this mouth

make me perfection, make me beauty
stroke grace into this pale flesh

carve out a new identity
all so that i might be loved, just once.

I want to map out
The constellations in your skin
Join up the stars
With my fingernails

Paint a picture on your back
With scratches and bruises
Not violence, dear, but
Practised intimacy.

I want to have you, hold you
Bring you closer to me
Reel you in and
Hook you up

I want to explore you
Commit every part to memory
Run my fingers over every patch of
Uncharted territory

Darling, dearest, beloved
None of which are quite
What I want -
But perhaps inveni fits your criteria.

I am a good man, inveni
But I can only hope that
my Lord will forgive me because
I will commit glorious sin and save alike

If it means I may sin with you.

no one really noticed
not until he stood
six thousand miles, disattached from the world
cold, grey separation

and they screamed for him,
but
he couldn't hear
over the taunting
the cold, uncaring
the anger
was just too loud

until he fell,
and met the welcoming ground

and of course
suddenly he was loved
but only in death

and by the time that oaken box of a broken man passed by
it was too late to care.

spitting words like venom,
your words are like shots to the heart.

as we withdrew our weapons -
increasing pace, i want to hurt you.

snarling, the silver lining of your kiss -
did it ever matter, at all?

and now look what it's come to,
guns to each others' heads.

we know each other. our shots can't miss.
Take this. And this. And this. And this.

flesh on bone
skin on blood
tangled webs of crisscross veins
woven by the nimble fingers of time

tears in smooth skin, sewn up
by cells that know not their own complexity,
and a spectrum of colours
thousands upon thousands to be perceived

this vessel you inhabit
drifting through years of ocean
and yet through the storm,
it cannot break.

a melody
composed of a thousand instruments
a world
formed by mountain and ocean

consciousness that binds your entire world together,

and you're telling me that we're not all beautiful?

This morning, I dropped a mug
and expected you to come running.
Just like old times, darling.

It took a while before I went to your bedroom.
I sat your old teddy at my feet, just as you used to.
Tears - like hurricanes -
whipping up the salty spray
Carrying me beneath the waves.

"It's okay," they say.
"Take all the time you need."
There will never be enough time
to make up for all that you had needed.

This evening, I visited your grave.
Just a little square in the ground. What was it,
two foot by four?
You would be sixteen now. Is that right
or has time turned in on itself,
slipping into unconsciousness
Just as I am?

Thirteen years passed far too quickly.
Thirteen years since
since everything

and the scream still echoes in my head.
If only I had stood before you.
Been there to catch you.

Three years, my darling.
You didn't have long enough.

Come spring, she loves and hopes, words tripping off her tongue like sonnets.

Come summer, her smile lights skies. Melodic tones drift as she does, skipping at her heels.

Come autumn, she is content. Memories consume her; could anything be so real as this?

Come winter, and she is tired. Alone yet dependent, she can't wait to get back to rest

and not return.

i am afraid of you, certainly
but not as i am afraid of loving you.

and still not like i am afraid of losing you.

yet still i am more afraid to be unravelled
piece by piece
for you to find nothing of want in me
than i am to love or lose you.