I.
Written a couple of years ago

For a moment she was a beat of nostalgia
disappearing
on the end of his tongue,
then misplaced- like a receipt underneath an ashtray

- or was she replaced?
He gave up smoking
and he's growing orchids now.

II.*
written for my best friend, recently, in response to a poem of his called 'i used to be his man*

Do you remember what time was like
before all of this began,
when I wasn't afraid of sleeping
and you wouldn't want to be anyone's man?

A stumble first, one of many, but then the thin-thin-
thinking-ridiculous-manic-hideous-and-forgot-
ten times as bad as it used to be, as it was be-
four times as loud as your in-
tension headaches, and those other pain-
fulfilling nothing so you really can't com-
plain and simple, nothing all that spec-
shall we try again, once over? Try a sec­ond t-
I'm not enough, I don't think, to  be some-
one stumble, this one time, another time, and it's one of many.

Hanging out my fresh washed sheet,
I'm whiter. I forgot to eat.

Enough,
I think I seem I am I think I am
enough,
I think,
I am not pretty.
as beautiful as water (from a tap)
but enough
of a pile of human teeth,
not grown-up but grown
from troubled daughter
(far enough from little brat)
so please, no need to look underneath
the words I say-
that's quite enough.
I think I seem I am I think
I am okay.

There is little I prefer to the sensation of his planting two kisses
on the top of my head before sleeping.

Only now do I realise how funny planting a kiss seems,
as if all kisses are capable of growing
and if we wake up one morning
with our pillows filled with roses
we'll know that they grew from those night-time kisses.

Still, flat hands
tick time away,
filling up boxes,
making empty space.

I don't know this form
and who it is for,
only to still, and to stay,
and to wait and to count-

the passing clouds
each passing hope-  

hope for time, hope none is waste,
hope whatever it is was worth the wait-

but then there is more time
and there is more space.

It's a long time to wait
and still to see
only one still, flat clock face.

All that time spent on trains, wandering,
wondering until I knew
I've never really had a place to call home.
I found it in you
with no need to be sorry
somewhere I am welcome to come back to.
There is dust on my shoes from a different place
and dirt in the graze I got on one of my knees
when we went out climbing trees.
(It left a scar that looks like grace.)