i don’t think I found myself in the poetry, i think i am finding myself in your arms
under the gentle pressure of your fingertips and the velvet embrace of your words.
they think I found myself in the halls of the airport that it walked alone
but
i think i am finding myself in the kitchen of your flat, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil; in cups of tea nursed at the table and I hope that’s okay.
i sip in the same tentative manner that i reach for your hand in the dark; you may have the effervescent beauty of a tree in the autumn but right now i would like to lace my fingers with yours and be human together. i hope that’s okay.
you are like literature and myth; a deep and sprawling spectrum of contradictions and complexities. i feel like teiresias; blind and trapped within my own self-made cocoon of spiralling thoughts.
eyes closed i reach for your hand.
i almost miss my stop on the last train home spilling out sweet words about your everything.
her hair straight out of bed with soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite; carved from the finest marble i want her to pin me down,
to the bed, to reality-
her lips, to guide me
from her waist and back
to sanity. early in the morning
when she wakes up tangled in sheets
with her eyes peeking up over her phone,
soft smile on her lips.
the world stands still in the soft glow of flickering street lights like visible heartbeats, glowing and not glowing in tandem, and the windows are frosted along the edges; worrying a cracked lip between my front teeth i realise this may be the most I have ever thought about tea.
our fingers
tangle, grasp sheets or cheeks rosy
with first-kiss smiles. eyelids
crinkle.
you are butterflies in my stomach, fear and exhilaration, honesty and hope
you are
listening to the same song on repeat; your laugh is the song stuck in my head, every song i’ve ever loved,
the only song i want to listen to.

just in case
you’re in a dark place
and can’t seem
to find a light switch
or matches even
I want you to know
you are loved
maybe not by yourself
yet
but you are
even though it sounds
like a fairytale for now
at some point
you’ll find the light switch
or the matches
and you’ll be able to see
that the fairytale
came true
and you’re the one
that made it happen

the day I finally caught the sun
between my lips
was the day i was set free
from the iron cage
with its iron bars,
that crushed my arms
and shattered my lungs.
i closed my eyes
and let the golden flames
drip down the back of my throat
and coat my tongue like honey.
i felt it spread through
my chest,
felt the thing i
had been chasing
for years
and years
and years.
i watched as the inky blackness
that had suffocated me
for so many silent nights
bled from my fingertips and
sunk into the dirt,
staining the daisies
and wilting the poppies.
a golden bead
slipped
down my cheek,
and i wondered
why my tears
had never tasted so
sweet.
sitting down with the sunflowers,
i watched the cotton candy
clouds
float across the baby blue sky,
and began writing about
the day i swallowed the sun.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.