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 Apr 2018
Eleanor Webster
We sit in your car
With the sun shining through
And take a moment
To just

Through the peach-fuzz pink
Of the interior of my eyelids
I can feel you watching me,
Your gaze as warm and lingering
As the rays of sunlight softly caressing my skin,
I imagine you tracing a pattern in your mind,
Following the gentle flutterings of my eyelids
Exploring the soft shape of my face
Watching the gentle susurration of my breath pooling from just-parted lips
Tracking the ridges of my collarbones
On marble white skin.
I can feel you watching me
And it makes me so overjoyed
Because I missed this
This thing that is not quite yet but a little akin
to love.

A moment of self doubt
Flickers in my field of vision-
What if I am wrong?
What if you do not feel this way
And I am stuck
In this idyllic peach-pink cherry-blossom fantasy of my own creation?
So I unshut my eyelids
Unstop time
And through the bluish haze
Of the suns rays
I find
Your eyes
On mine.
 Feb 2018
Eleanor Webster
At night,
When nothing could save me from my head,
I opened my eyes to see the night sky
Eery green glow on world weary white
Why do they always have pentagram points
Enlarged or minuscule, like prism cutouts
Windows to the world above?

If you concentrate,
You can plot the lines between them
Like the Greeks and Romans did,
Fathers and children of all mankind.
This bedroom was a blank canvas for a child's hands
To find and mark different constellations
Her own legends
Her own mythos
Monsters and fairies, princes and kings.

When she looks up at the ceiling,
She can see our myths
Etched in the spaces between the pools of light
Intangible to most, perhaps,
Felt across a breach
The dark span of country roads and motorways
Train tracks tracing patterns on skin
And sometimes on the darkest nights
I can see nothing but stars
And can't make out the shape of your face
This isn't a simple science.

Sometimes my light does not seem to bridge the gap
Sometimes yours seems faint, too,
But we both burn holes in the cracked plaster
Some days, this is the easiest thing in the world
On others, we might as well be light years apart.

That little girl still looks though
Spread eagled on a ballerina duvet, she still smiles
Watching the lights shift
Playing dot-to-dot with fate
Until she gently falls asleep
Dreaming of castles she has yet to see
And princes she has yet to meet.
A poem about long-distance and glow in the dark sticker stars.
 Jan 2018
Eleanor Webster
My god, you've finally done it.
I'm lost for words.
Me! Lost for words!

Words have always been my friends,
My tools,
Working for me when they would work for no one else.
I'd pluck perfect prose out of the air before me
Words curling luxuriously like cats around my writing hand
They seemed standoffish to others
But I was the Cat-whisperer of creative composition
My magic was language
I have personified pain
Allegorised anger
Sensationalised sadness
But when it comes to your love
I must use the words of another
For I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.

I want to give you the gift of my words,
For they are the only thing I have left to give,
My heart was always yours, even before we knew
How well we fit.

When talking on any other subject
I find it hard to stop
But when it comes to you,
My silver tongue turns to lead
Because you are the one thing I cannot articulate
How can I explain that when I look up to the sky I search for the colour of your eyes but I can never find it
That falling in love with you was like falling in love with a sunset
That the way you look at me feels as if, for the first time, I am a girl worth writing a story about.

People have put these sentiments into much better words than I ever could
And I love you always seemed enough before
But how can that crescendo of emotion I feel-
And the constant gentle waves that lap the seashores of my mind,
For what is love if only felt in passion not in anger-
Be summarised in three short words?

You know me.
I like to compartmentalise,
Have a name and a meaning for everything I do,
A consolation prize from society-
Sure you're weird, but others are too,
From my sexuality to my star sign
My life is neatly noted
With post its and labels
An explanation for everything
An Oxford dictionary definition for anyone who sticks around long enough to care
I like to pretend I don't do it
But I do.

You were the first person to make me realise:
There are some things
Beyond language.
Poem from a while back- like I say, I'm working through my collection until I get up to date. This was when I was starting to write poetry and still found it hard to put my feelings into words.
 Jan 2018
Eleanor Webster
Alabaster boy
Unlearn the things they have told you
Harsh lips and uncaring smiles
The ones who hated you
And the lips
That were supposed
To love

Alabaster boy
I want to untie the stitches
Of the scars on your left arm
Those crimson red slashed grins
Taunting you
Mocking you
I cannot heal them
But I can drown out their cries

Alabaster boy
You are so beautiful
Carved from marble
Soft as snow
Warm as laughter

Alabaster boy
Let me undo the damage
From years ago
Let me kiss every inch
Of your beautiful skin
Let me heal
With kind lips
And soft eyes-

Alabaster boy
I will treat you
With the reverence you deserve
Until you can look in the mirror
And see your beauty painted whole.
An old love poem.

— The End —