As the music tantalises
something tricks the wick of my mind
through the pattern of the eruptive wind
besides the reeds of the adventure
in the swampy zones where I find the way
hiding the inner soul as peace partakes

As the sunshine gazes
the outer lights seems a hundred years
unreachable yet so lovely and visible
there is a pinch of it that never disappears
and it tears all the skin to the kins of bones
depths with the unpenetratable glass

The loneliness is so tasteful
away from any eventful unsteadiness
it scratches the ledge of the window sill
hoping to leap and fly to it’s freedom
and it’s shattered state is a sacrifice
unable to find it’s way home

Sometimes I wonder if
I’m the only one who sees my gift
as a curse,
and my curse as a gift.

A blue morning on the 46a to Stillorgan.
I get emotional gliding past the little orange town house. I've passed it every day for two years but this time it feels different.

I can smell your walls and furniture.
Can taste the breakfast you'd surprise me with after a long night of dancing and love making.
Can feel your head on my shoulder as you hold me at the kitchen counter.

You kiss my stomach.

On our last morning, you had driven me to college. Me, eating nutella and banana toast and you watching the roads too carefully. You had just gotten your license. Fionn Regan played softly.