When I think
about love,
I don’t think of holding hands
In front of setting suns.
I think of holding on to these moments
between us,
and praying
that the sun rises the same way tomorrow.

Just because you know no more than your old scars and heavy eyes
doesn't mean I have to keep to your old ways.
And its all I can to not turn back
to watch you watching me walk away.
I wish I could go so far to not see your eyes
but I know that I will see them in every reflection and shard of darkness
I have to walk past.
The cracks in these roads are getting so wide that every step
is a leap of faith.  The horizon is getting closer
and from here we can see less of the blue sky.
The roads are turning into dusty footpaths so close
that we can't even hold hands.
These are not days for thinking and contemplation
but for putting distance between yourself and your bad decisions.
The things that can hurt and the things that can ****.
The days for remembering are getting close and
silence hits us when we least expect it and the shadows are never far behind.
Too slow to see and to quick to outrun.
I'll lead you to the blinding lights and say that this is a chance
we have to take. Our chance.
And you say that their is always more than one way
to escape.

I peered in every puddle
on the way home,
the storm had left them squirming
in short and shallow lakes on the
empty roads.

I tried looking in mirrors
and dark windows
but you were't reflected
in any of them.

The water shuddered
with every blast of wind;
shadows bounced around
and for a few moments,
I thought I could see your shadow
by my side.

As if you could only survive in
violence and motion.

The wind died down
and only the streetlights were reflected,
spaced unequally along the road,
like broken stars.

I've got enough
words in my heart
to write a novel.
But it would be a bad novel.
Pages and pages of *******,
bad advice and cliches
that I didn't even know
were cliches.
But even I know
that it would have its good parts.

My uncle said
'there's not enough
beauty
in the world'.
He said that
he was happy, but tired,
and he wished wished wished
he had more time.
That he feared for the man
who lived life
avoiding the things
that make it worthwhile.

He had this idea
for a poem
about fireworks over a Rio slum,
and one about
wet leaves sweeping
across a busy airport,
but he said he didn't know
where to start.
And I said right now,
right right now.
And I said there was beauty
everywhere
if you look hard enough.
Like flowers caught on
barbed wire fences.
Like a butterfly escaping a
furious cat.
Like lovehearts stamped
into frozen puddles.

And he said that
'I was right',
smiling into his half empty pint glass.

Sometimes
when I can't even
try
to get to sleep,
I lie there
and think about
everything
I will never find out.

Like; why that girl
was staring at me.
Like; if my father
is still awake.
Like; if all the people
who asked me for directions
got to where
they wanted to be.