They'd been living together for two years now but he still had difficultly placing a name on their relationship. It was always complicated, born of a reckless impulse to do something dangerous and a more simple indulgence of curiosity. He couldn't help it, from the first glimpse across that cold lab, to that wink as he left the room, Sherlock fascinated the Hell out of him. He found himself focusing on the tiniest of things, the tone of his voice, the way the vowels and consonants clashed together, the way that the sullen silences and manic experiments blended into the fabric of the life that they lead.

People called them friends or flatmates, occasionally people would speculate if they were really lovers. The truth was that they were all as bewildered to the true extent of their relationship as he was.

Certainly, there was an elemant of truth in all of the assumptions. Technically, they were all of those things. In the quiet, 3AM born musings however, these words always felt inadequete, meaningless, compared to the feeling he got when he stared down at Sherlock, breathing softly and blissfully ignorant to the internal struggle of emotions, labels and expectations that he felt every night, woken up by some nagging doubt that clawed away at the fabric of his mind as he shared a bed with the man whose existance in his life was beyond explanation.

My camera clicks a little
less these days.
It doesn't forget that we are
no longer young.
The years we spent
kissing under trees, stretching
our limbs out to the sun,
skin crisping, blistering,
then peeling. Are gone.
We thought we were
solid and stern, that
we could easily hold off
the gusts of time. Now
we sleep most of the day.
Occasionaly, we take a walk
(in the shade) the trees have
aged too, but they still
stand proud. We are
more like a branch
it's cast off in the wind.
My finger pauses
over the shutter, I
want to mark this
moment, to see if
the picture is less
kind once it's
taken.

We ran from our homes
like a flood

Our limbs burning
as the pavement
fades under our
feet

From city
to city
we move

Like a shadow
creeping out
to reach

The sea

I don't want to hear it.
How he found you, you're eyes locked
over plastic glasses
of cheap wine

the way your feet
dangled slightly
swinging from
the stool, avoiding
the floor

how he offered you his
coat, streatched tight
across his slightly
too wide shoulders,
the way the sleeves
blocked you from
the cold in a grip
that was almost
firm, but not...

you knew the price
of an illegal cab fare
just not the cost
of not riding one

orange lights and exhaust fumes,
the engines humming like a bird
that's dying, still fighting
to breathe, like black
beasts of metal and
sulphur

it could have been over
in seconds, a wave of your
hand away from never
starting

instead you wrapped
the coat tighter, like a cage
with soft walls, pockets
stuffed with shot glasses

and took him home

My father hated him
at sight

Stolen glances from behind
his crystal whiskey glass

He prefered the last
one

Tall and dark and
strong

A real man

The kind of guy that looks
like he carries photos of
his kids in his wallet

With spare twenties and
condoms

My mother keeps
quiet

I know she liked him
too

But she noticed the bruises
and fat lips

She knows the smell
of pressed powder
over black eyes

I really was her daughter
back then

A broken bone bond
between  her child

She hates that I got
out

That I refused to carry
on their name

She looks at the new guy
whose arms hang over my shoulders

My father smokes cigars
and sighs

Trying to work out if his hands
could make fists

If his knuckles could
smash against my skull

He can't stand to see me
with a man who lets me answer back

A man who gives me his coat
when it's cold

He likes to see a mirror
reflecting back his
brutality

Telling him that his daughter
is safe (in a way) from
the wolves that walk the pages
of fairy tales

It's that time of year again,

The air is warm,
breathing delicate
wisps of breeze
across my skin

I was cold
inside my heart,
shrank and barely
beating

My head is my own
theatre, frames flashed
and frozen, projecting
every still

I try to put the ghosts
to rest, bury them like
bones in a garden

But they wake up,
like vampires,
when the sun sets

Words catch in
my throat, lungs
take in their fill
of air, but there's
not enough oxygen

To feed my brain.

I do not want my heart to burn with longing,
for this love to be a fire that roars when our fingers touch,
our lungs shrinking, our coughs and splutters
mixing in the air

I just want to feel warm.