Stop, I can’t fall for you, I’m not allowed,
I’m not allowed to speak out to you
For speaking to you would hurt me more,
bringing me the realisation it will never happen.

Instead I will sit here and write,
I’ll write you encrypted poems you’ve seen,
without knowing they’re for you,
a sign of how I feel for you.

But you don’t get it do you?
How would you know what I feel
when I don’t even know how I feel for you.

The simple answer is you wouldn’t.
You could rip my skin and hear it peel
and not understand that it hurts.
All you would do is see the process
and continue on your way.

I’m screaming for you to talk to me,
as talking to me would bring me a relief,
a relief that it wasn’t all in my head,
that I wasn’t assuming it all.

So end my emotional torture before
I put myself out of this misery and try again.

Why am I a joke to you?
No really, because my admiration seems to be undermined
and it’s not because you don’t care,
but that you’ve seen it before.

I’ve told you these feelings many a time
like a book you’ve re-read.
But the words have lost meaning,
my words are dissmissive.
And the whole story is good to you,
but now following the process
just seems completely pointless.

To you, I’m
dispensable.

Like Debussy's arabesque we danced,
your feet too slow, and mine too fast,
in different times, yet
intertwined,
we cascaded like the notes
brushed by gentle fingers;

I want to run away with you,
Although I barely know you, thats why we’d go,
no past, no ruin, no hurt
Just an adventure for me and you.
A relentless journey to find each other ,
jump off cliffs and write our stories.
Whilst starring into each others souls,
And the speckled sunlight peers though the crevasses
of doors at dawn because we’ve spoke through the night,
forgetting that time itself exists.

Let’s run.

The first time you kissed me, flowers bloomed;
From my heart unfurling, lilies, roses, fragile
things, so gentle and so new, so sickly
sweet, they clogged my veins with
scent, and wrapped their vines
around my heart.  I still feel
them now, slowly wilting
away to nothing, slowly
dying and decaying,
these little buds
of something
gone.

I love the idea of smoke,
the fumes clinging to my lungs
and the exasperated gasp to regain air.

The smoke that can burn down a home,
a place filled with memories to be ruined,
ashes of forgotten darkness.

A smoke that can be a sign,
a scream for help and danger.
A reassurance to others of your struggle.

I like your smoke,
the intoxication of your breath,
mixing with mine in a moment of relief.
Before the bitter after taste of realisation.

For nothing can bring me joy,
nothing more than smoke can make me suffer.