Awake;
the morning cacophony of cars sing and
the tread of the many outside our doors
washes through stone walls and into here.

Here;
where we lay and lie and love and the hours
creep by, tiny movements of a hand hastening
the path to our inevitable destruction.

Now;
now as the dawns chorus rises to an inescapable roar
and your arms tighten around my chest; your face
defiantly still buried in the depths of dark hair.

We;
that ****** word, that cage that I cannot outrun,
we move only by staying still; your arms my
sweetest stricture; my breath your way home.

I trip on the colours, blink like a child in
mornings lit by yellow drips of vacuous veins
winding sweet around your neck.

Your smile doesn't visit here anymore,
your darkness significant only in silence as
I touch your skin with fingers too insubstantial
for you to feel them.

I swoop low and cradle you in arms that
chafe like barbed wire caresses and
your eyes don't water from the smoke
I no longer hide.

We migrate, constricted and contained, sinking
like shattering shards of ice, separate atoms
only held together for so long.

I search for your reflection in the morning puddles,
the rain from yesterday still wet against my skin,
but the sky above seems empty; it does not talk back.

Your transparent presence today echoes my own
and time has come to embrace our salt,
for all left now is the places
where you are not.

He falls from my thoughts like
autumn leaves from the trees;
dancing away on a bitter wind.

I survive the winter, easy to ignore bare branches
whispering of ghosts buried shallow
in the cracked and frozen ground.

I continue; I forget to regret as
the dark nights draw in
whilst I thaw out.

No fear of green here, nor of light
bringing colour to what I now
admit I have lost.

But, even so, as the earth twists on its axis
thought of him still will flower;
loathe to grow back as the sun shines.

The threat of tinsel hangs heavy around my house and
every surface I have tarnished with gaudy colours, one
handed angels and effigies of flightless birds.

I remember one year, as nights drew in and wrapped us
in its sightless embrace and my sisters and I still shared
one tiny room and you, dressed in a ridiculous red
dressing gown, crept loudly into our room.

Eyes closed but lips lit, we paraded our false slumber
as you offered a rumbling "** ** **", gifting allies
laughter that shivered in our beds.

I remember the next, as your trembling hands fluttered,
never touching, the presents we had each bought ourselves,
as it has become too bright for you to step outside.

You wept and I drew my face stoic
as those aged hands trembled and these bitter claws
ripped and tore and vainly tried to stick
fragile paper back together with meaningless scraps of tape.

Your face whispered, "shouldn't be wrapping your own presents"
as white salt mapped fresh rivers, traced on giving skin.

I avoided the rain clouds of your sound;
methodically trying to appease this sadness.

My voice lilted of forgiveness but my body, such young bones, so
rough-raged and rigid, spoke of a bitterness I would've died
to hide like the tears you used to try to.

Smoke and gaslight and pretty little parcels wrapped in gold,
maybe if we bury all under forgiving paper, living can
play as happy as the paltry promise of this season.

The light catches his body and
will not let it go, as I lie

and smile and make the appropriate
movements, always thinking -

my head never shuttering, never silenced
as I count up the crimes of the day,

reflected from sight of the light of him,
slapping my face as it hits.

We were drunk and
I wanted it so you obliged.

I put your fingers in my mouth -
you told me this was dangerous

that made it feel so delicious  
as you gave and I took, but

I feel something stirring
and now I am afraid.

You said
"you are so tired" and smiled
the warmth bringing expectation
a need to please

so I made all of the right noises
and you commenced to reduce me
of the burden of my clothes.

eyes closed
body supine,
languid and lying
mouth still.