Home is full of secrets.
The first laugh and all the laughs in between the last of a baby muffled itself into the bedroom walls. His mother sometimes sit in front of it, hoping, hoping it could live in her ears again.

The nervous movement of lip to lip, neck to neck, heart to heart in the wardrobe, in between jeans and cotton button-downs.
Getting dressed is still achingly difficult. And it is getting truly ridiculous now.

Those holding-too-tight-yet, you-are- still- not- close- enough sort of hugs under tired doorways.
You were enough, you are always enough.

Within swelled up throats, the unsaid words hid themselves in odd drawers, cabinets and a handful of knooks & crannies.
I opened a drawer today and I very nearly cried.

For I heard your voice, your breaths, then brushed again with the warmth and coldness of your wrists. All of which were in different dimensions of time and memories.

And I try and am still trying to keep my pen on the page. For, its to keep you alive, again.
A few words has already slipped and tip-toed off the page.
I'll find it someday.
(Putting something far, far, far off the horizon eyes can possibly see is the sort of thing, humans are terribly good at.)

Venus sits below a contrail necklace
whilst the moon above sighs,
a ring around its lips guiding
shoreline ships back home again
to be met by merry wives.

Walking with the swell in their socks
the sailors tread on land,
trembling souls and uneasy hearts
make for nervous hands.

Their faces have greyed under
a stubble mist, grown out of a
no-mirror-broken-razor rage;
to kiss is to make red,
to be back home is to sleep in a bed.

Tight canyon cheeks are stretched-
flat canvas peaks, tanned bronze
by a sun that runs among
northern hemisphere, north-east sheets.

Chipped lips miss the taste of salt
so drink up the malt and take a rest,
not long from now he'll want
his mistress back, the woman
of the swell, this ocean's mademoiselle.