I sat and watched the bustling intersection. Our favourite cafe, our favourite lamp post, our favourite brownstone and tenement. All those people carelessly walking by not even remotely aware of the memories we carved out on these city sidewalks. This here is home. Home as reflected through the transient beauty of a stranger’s smile. Where do the lonely go to when everything reminds me of you?

Perfect is a seven letter word that should not exist because how could you be real?

I used to hear a whispered word. Reverently uttered in the quiet of the seconds that exist between minutes. And unspoken dreams dance faultlessly carried on the mist that floats down from the emerald trees that shimmer in the morning sun. Breaking through the clouds and slicing the magical twilight, for a second nature awakes and rejoices to a new song of repentance.

A bruise is nothing. They hurt for the most part but then they heal. They’re like coffee rings that stain tabletops. Easily removed with a damp dish rag. A scar is something else. More like a true friend, always there, even if you don’t remember quite how you got it. Most people are like bruises or fleeting moments, here today and gone tomorrow. They’re like invisible ink. But a true friend, that’s a scar. A permanent imprint that’s left on the soul which marks you forever.

Right now these words will lie against the hum, the ambient noise, the pressure at the back of your knees, your tongue, your mouth, the knot in your shoulders and the cool exposed places on your body. I see that my gaze is frivolously considering through blinders not the meanings but objects that sparkle and shine in the sunlight. But when night falls how shall I proceed experiencing a different world with the same two eyes? The ordinary is investigated because the living is all that can be observed. Observed through the intricacies that mark the boundaries between dark and shadows, old and new. This was the meaning I found in the blurred vision of your shoulders and torso as I grappled through the fog of my own neural pathways.

The men cut me open to have a look. They thought they could heal me so they sliced me in half. Instead of organs and blood all they found was a tangled mess of misfiring wires. They poked at the loose connections but nothing seemed to work. There was nothing but broken dreams and empty hopes. They sifted through unfinished sentences scattered among a tyranny of unspoken words. They tried and tried and tried until they tired. Wiping their brows they stitched me right up again and sent me on my way. Leave this for the next one, there’s nothing more we can do.

Stuff my hands deep into my pockets. I’ll cut my fingers as I fish for a quick and caustic wit. The reality of life is disinteresting. But I’ll hold onto a host of memories painted with the scent of you.

What if there wasn’t a word for everything? And no matter how hard you scraped against the insides of your brain, all you are left with is a handful of bloodied pink flesh. Some feelings are better off left as they are; hidden away from prying eyes. To expose them is to reveal the root of the word. It is to stand naked in front of a crowd as your imperfections and perceived blemishes are slowly and deliberately picked to pieces by scrutinising eyes.

She was waiting. Silently trying to remain as still as possible on that busy sidewalk. As nameless faces brushed past her she wondered how anyone could be lonely surrounded by so many people. She tried to remember what she was waiting for. Then it started to rain. She stretched out her arms as far as she could and smiled widely. She had been waiting for the rain. She had been waiting to be cleansed; like kisses that fall willingly from the lips of a divine lover.

The way you get so animated when you talk about something you love. And I can hardly get a word in except for the occasional “uh huh” or “oh really”. But please don’t mistake my lack of eloquence for disinterest. I just love watching you fumble over sentences as words pour out of your mouth like a river bursting its banks.

And should they want to know what I think of you? Read this and understand that every alphabet is drenched in thoughts of you. And it would take a thousand words and a thousand more to even begin…

The words that long to be heard hover precariously on the edge on her lips. End the monologue of deep breaths and heavy sighs and just ask her already.

With reverent hands we desperately fumble for something to hold on to. Forgetting that what we seek is really ourselves. Maybe it’s easier to look outside than it is to look within. And yet you wander where magic comes from. But I see it in everything you do. Shed the shackles that chain you down and the moonlight will dance upon your beautiful naked soul. And a memory will leave a quiver of a smile upon your lips. Take my hand and permit me to voyage upon the choppy waters of your thoughts. There we will travel to sobriety and we’ll hook our dreams on the crook of a cloud so that no matter which way we face, the sun will always shine on us.

You fill the stories I keep repeating to myself in those quiet moments as I fall asleep at night. But no matter how many times I do, the imaginings pale in comparison to the blinding, vivid truth of you set in broad daylight.

When I was cold he held my hand. He would often sing a melody that sounded like the gentle rustling of leaves. And just before stepping out into the chilly night air, he would drape himself with a jacket made of stars.

The old adage ‘opposites attract’ is such bull crap seeing how similar we both are and how well we get along together. So scoot on over here, swallow your pride and grab hold of my hand. Let’s give ‘em something to talk about.

It was like a strangers smile could heal even the most heartsick of us. And in that glance the world was set on fire through hooded eyes and breathless words. Nothing was spoken but actions were felt. Soft and gentle like the fluttering kisses of a butterfly on your skin.

Sometimes all we are looking for is a gentle squeeze of the arm or a comforting smile from a friend. Leave the fireworks and violins to Hollywood and come and give me a hug because in this house, the smallest gestures are always the most powerful.

The ghosting of fingertips on bare skin. And closer than the vein that throbs in your neck. Close your eyes and imagine me there. In an embrace that chills you right to the core. Holding on like a memory that won’t fade.

The shore’s deep cobalt waters gradually give way to sand and polished stone. Outside, raindrops crash to the ground like a string of pearls ripped from a delicate necklace. They scatter loose and bring to mind a painful, ecstatic heartbeat. Each drop caresses and kisses dead branches blackened by soot and flames. I’ll gather each pearl, searching on my hands and knees in the dying light. A futile practice but an exercise in remembering. But could anything remain on naked flame as tiny embers dance in the midnight air?

If you were a city you’d be an eclectic place to live. You’d be as classy as Paris, as hip as LA, as cultured as Rome and as wild as Amsterdam. And I’d gladly spend all eternity exploring your winding back alleys, city pavements and rolling hills just so I know how the sunrise and sunset look from every square inch of you. So with every step I take, with every new discovery made, let it spell an alphabet from a never ending love letter to the pleasures of simply having found you.

She was more the spontaneous kind of girl. The kind of friend who taps at your 1st floor bedroom window at 4am, gets you to ninja climb down a tree, sprint halfway across town and then up a small hill just to prove to you the sunrise was really tangerine orange in colour. She was just that kind of girl. The kind you wouldn’t mind waking up at 4am for.

A love letter written
with every step
in this dying city
over sidewalks
and broken pavements
I was searching
but did you even see me standing there?

Bill and his girl; is it weird they’re so much like you and I? But instead of traveling some foreign country, ours is a world of distant suns, constellations and galaxies. So much more than Paris, New York or Japan. Dream your wildest dream and I’ll paint it in words on our canvas made of sparkling diamonds. And when we need to rest we’ll lay down on a shooting star and you can tell me where you learnt to smile as bright as the moon on a cloudless night.

Stand under the red neon of that dingy bar. Use it’s flicker to still your heartbeat and tell me the things you can’t as you peel the label off your empty Copenhagen bottle.

But knowing me, I’ll be the one standing on the other side of that burning bridge with a can of gasoline in one hand and matches in the other. And should they ask why I did it I’ll just light a cigarette and say, “it’s times like these you know the true nature of the beast”.

The memory of that summer will coat my tongue with a layer of you. And every so often I will come across a taste, a smell, a sound, or a touch that will awaken the sleeping dragon within. And I will burn like a furnace, from the inside out, longing to gaze upon a face I know better than my own.

I’ll love you like the moon loves the ocean. From a distance but always there. And even though there will be times you’ll find it hard to see me. You must know that there’s a smile on my face. For the dance you do as you kiss the shore is one that will captivate me till the sun and the stars burn out one by one and I’m floating in nothing but the essence of you.

I write you love poems on my skin
And you grin as you erase alphabet by alphabet with teasing kisses
I’ll write you another until I’m nothing
but the salty taste that lingers on your salty lips.

A cusp. An apex. Something was brewing as it quietly stirred in the dark. It was the idea of rebellion that mesmerised under the deadbolt of my closed mind. It was all that passion. But whatever was it for if it was to remain bottled up? All that ****** passion just kept on a shelf. Maybe we will never know it even exists until a completed story reveals itself. And then there will be nothing left to do but accept what it is as it is. So as compensation try to delight in a walk through the cool midnight breeze as you push back against the hot sidewalk heat of a long and smoky month. Brush past the traffic and the neon signs and all the noise this city breathes and just let its madness envelope you in its warm and dizzying embrace.

Walking alone along the salt-soaked boards of my haunted memories. It’s a trip down one of those smoked filled open-mic nights where the air is heavy with stale perfume, heavy eyelids and painted on smiles. I find myself meandering the city streets and cobbled sidewalks searching for a ghost. In hopes that I’ll round the corner and collide with my own version of magik and inspiration. I’m intoxicated by a sweet anticipation like a flint flirting with a spark on the soul. A hope for some glimmer of warmth or recognition from the empty stares of a stranger’s eyes.

Walking down the street
Smiling quietly with me but by yourself
Hands in your pocket
Something on your mind
Fire escapes and fences
The holiday lights dancing some kinda magic off of your brown hair
Remember that Spring a few years back
You kissed me and I tasted your salty lips
No traditions, no gift exchanges,
Just a mistletoe hanging from the clear blue sky
Dresses and ties and blazers and heels
You’re my somebody to share the holidays with
You’re my someone to kiss
You’re my someone at midnight holding hands under a streetlight
And you’re my someone in those quiet secret moments
What a sweet souvenir
If I let my mind talk,
You are that sweeping statement, the summing up of everything I chant subconsciously.

There’s a knock and before I can get to it, in comes Self Doubt barging through the door. He prances in and smiles at me like we’re old friends. And he shakes my hand and pats me on the back as he walks past me and settles into the sofa as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I’m left with my mouth agape, fumbling like a fool to shut the door and hang his coat. I’ll speak some pleasantries as he eyes my movements like a hawk staring down a prey readying itself for the final swoop. But we both know that if he’s already here, I may as well be standing naked in an open field waving a white flag of surrender. And like a fish out of water I will gasp for air. But my old friend Self Doubt and I have played this game over and over again. There have been countless nights we duel in silence just staring at each other. Because even in my weakened state I will claw and kick for any last ounce of life. We both know what will save me. But you never save me.

Come the weekend,
I’ll tell you goodbye again
and settle into unrequited love
because you linger in every moment
in the mornings you flood the room with light
and in the nights you soak every corner of my dreams.

He held her too close and he held her too tight. For him time stood still. But for her, the ticking of her wristwatch never sounded so crisp and clear. She knew he was falling for her but she wished she could silence her inner voice telling her to pull away from that familiar embrace. Holding on for a few more seconds couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. And so she did. She held on tight. Perhaps they both did. In spite of what she kept telling herself, she pulled away. She broke the hold just as she felt her heartbeat thud and thump in time with his. It could not, should not when it was already tuned to that of another beat.

This train rolls on a railway of thoughts which leads straight to expected behaviors. When every step you take is that of a tightrope artist who has to find the right balance. Ceaselessly trying to juggle between just enough and not too much. But in the end, you have to be resolute and unmoved because you know that in spite of the turmoil within, you are a solo act. Not the main attraction but a side show act. And it is exhausting, all this pretending.

Don’t tie your hair in a messy bun.
Don’t flick your ash like you don’t care.
Don’t hide ‘cause I see you flinch from those spoken words.
They sting worse than punches
and the bruises never fade.
And I see how you dismiss the hurt by playing it cool.
But darling,
there ain’t no one who feels nothing.
And you can disguise your feelings with all that black you wear.
Or paint on your mascara thick like you don’t give a ****.
But baby,
people are gonna talk no matter what;
how much you ate,
how thin you are,
that you think too much,
that you don’t care enough,
that your heels are too high,
or you’re pretending to be someone else
or just how you do,
or how you don’t.
And I know these things play off on your mind and keep you up at night.
But bottling it up isn’t going to ease the swell in your troubled heart.
It’ll just feed the sorrow and someday that old bubble is gonna have to burst.
So here, take my hands
because they’re yours to hold.
And don’t look surprised
because they’ve always been.
Maybe you never noticed them,
or maybe it wasn’t the right time.
Or maybe you were holding out for another pair of hands.
Now I know these hands are small.
They look fragile
but they’re all I’ve got to give.
Oh yes, there is my heart
but you claimed that long before I could auction it off to the highest bidder.
These fragile hands will
hold,
caress,
support,
and cure you.
If you’re weary
they’ll rock you to sleep.
They’d do more than just move mountains
and part oceans for you.
So take these hands and hold on tight.
But don’t doubt these hands
because they’re yours to hold.

A manifestation of my heart when I’m happy. And just in case it isn’t as obvious as a clear blue sky after a storm breaks, you are the reason for my happy. Babe just like these fireworks you are breathtaking and beautiful and have just enough boom and bang to make my heart bounce about in its lonely cage. Your sparkle reminds me I’m alive. And when I’m sad your voice is so loud and it reverberates in my head drowning out the demons inside and clearing away the heavy cobwebs within. So don’t you ever be sad. Because a sad firework could never dance or light up the sky the way you always do with mine.

Love is
the bullet
you fired
from your
heart straight
into mine.

A collision of two stars
a clash of two realities
the pages of your notebook is filled with gems that fall carelessly from your lips
like metaphors that come and go
bouyed up with photographs put into words
your imagination is your detachment from reality
and this makes you fascinating and intriguing
like drinking coffee under the stars
or staring into the rainbow reflections of a soap bubble
If she’d let me,
I’d step into her world
just to see how she became such a hopeless romantic
If she’d let me,
I’d hold her heart in my hands and feel how heavy it is
Like an iceberg that floats upon her ocean
Weary like poison in my blood
I’ll wade through her waters
and feel salty despair crashing at my feet
I’ll stare into the endless infinity of her liquid brown eyes
and search
for the faintest hint of my own reflection
staring back at me.

I thought that was bold
You placed my hand on your thigh
Under the table
In that crowded restaurant
A few people were staring
I could feel my cheeks burning
Your leg was on fire
And so was my desire.

I love you
and all your make-believe imperfections
Give me your brokenness and your self loathing
Because you are beautiful
and I wish there was a way for me to make you believe
That you’re more than those models on tv
You’re more than your pant size
You’re more than the number on your weighing machine
You’re more beautiful than anyone I know
But you hate your tummy, your arms and your thighs
When these are the things I love the most about you
I also love your lips
I could kiss them forever
I love how they quiver just before ours meet
I love how you stare at me through hooded eyelids soaked in passion and lust
And I love my hands on your hips
As we dance to the beat of two hearts in conversation
But I love your heart the most
as pure and untouched as the first snow that falls on a winters day
When the words “I love you” fall freely from my lips
You ask me,
"What’s wrong with you?"
And I will say,
"Baby, I can see what you can’t and you’re perfect."
"Look in my eyes … don’t you see just how beautiful you are?"

I’m a pyromaniac
so what did you expect I would do
when you come in here
looking
so
****
hot.

I like it best
when we are sharing
quiet wordless
conversations.

Your eyes flash like mirrored lightning
a fire that burns of drowsy desire
those somnambulant romances
heavy and damp
where hope grows in a meadow of whispers
like the alchemist and doyen of deconstruction
it echoes in twilight’s caress
willingly a bolt is unhinged
breathed out heavily between sighs
when passion ignites the plumes of incandescent liquid ash
and untethered silhouettes
find ease and comfort in the contours of shadows
transforming a dimly lit cabin
into a paradise of colours
and hastily made promises.

Streetlights that stand like sentinels
   once cast a warmth into the dark
But now the night is splintered
   and the cold seeps in through the shadows
Letters no longer make sense
   and broken flames highlight angular buildings
They block out the stars, remember those stars?
   and they hide the moon
"Choose," I say and breathe life into these veins
   or let the darkness in and I’ll fold my wings away.

Each day you drive in circles until you realise you’ve been on this same route for months. And then the cold blows in, loudly announceing its arrival like an unwelcomed but expected guest in the the wee hours of the morning. It drags its feet across the tarmac and tiny whirling tornados follow with every heavy step. There’s nothing left to do because now, the cold is here to stay. And it’s determined to make you accept this no matter how hard you kick and scream against it. With every blow, every blast and every tingle that goes shooting down your spine, your resilience lessens. Sometimes, in a moment of weakness, you could be forgiven for even considering the cold as a welcomed lover. Because it steals your breath. And in the mornings you’d rather lie in bed surrounded by its chilly embrace.

When you call at 1 am
vulnerability dangling from every word
your voice stripped down
bare, earnest,
this is when
I love you the most.

You are
a moment in time
Something I’d tattoo
on my wrists to remember
Do you know
you’ve left an indelible mark
across the plains of my heart?

I like the way our fingers intertwine
searching
for a formula
for an equation
that explains how seamlessly
they fit together.