for two nights in a row
I have fallen asleep
in your arms,
but when you leave
I find it impossible
to sleep.

it's 4am
and I'm wondering
if you ever leave me for good,
will I stay awake for every
painstaking heart beat?

He makes me want to write my sentences properly.

He makes me want to type my 'I's correctly.

Because of him, I shall capitalise the letter because to him, I am big and I am important.

I am worthy of being an 'I' in comparison to an 'i'.

Because of him, I want to write poetry that rhymes.

For he fits into my ink and it pulses through his veins, I can see through the surface of his skin and he belongs to me.

I want my sentences to accurately show
the rhythm and life that he inflicts on my own.

Because of him, I want my words to bounce with my heartbeat.

I am, I am, I am.

Because of him, I am no longer on borrowed time.

Because of him, I want write poems with anaphora.

Because he is the beginning of every thought, every line. Every second, every time.

His lines are repeated but he is fresh and new.

Because of him, I do not cower
                           it is only when I am singing in the shower
that I remember the times
I would idly sit in the greying water
and imagine them walking in on my body
which would be as cold and lifeless as it was in the inside for so long

But now, I see light
and no, it's not that light that you reach for because i - no I, am no longer longing for that desperate release of death.

Because of him, I no longer scratch my fingernails along the walls of the day
grasping onto it
and scared of the one to come.

Because of him, I eagerly await the sunrise counting down the amount of sleeps until I am sleeping in his security.

In 2005 The Piano Man was found wandering the streets of Sheerness in a soaking wet suit and tie
he didn't say a word.
When presented with pad and pen he simply drew a grand piano.
His nurses sat him in front of a beat up old upright
he played for four hours straight;
for four months his hands were the only things to break his silence.

Alexandre Dumas said "man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy."
Do you ever think about how Beethoven hacked the legs off his piano so he could feel the sounds he couldn't hear in his head, through his chest?
And Van Gogh heard the sounds his paintings made but kept going until his sanity
was just a memory floating on a distant river under a tired Milky Way.
And you see, like a Gaelic folk song blindness runs red through my family,
so I know it's not much but I'm here, still trying to mould my hands to say the right form of 'I love you'.

And did you know that the human heart beats over 30 million times a year, but we still have a hard time keeping our feet on the ground?
And did you know that the act of breaking in a horse is actually the act of breaking it's back?
Like we can't sit without sitting on broken things.
And did you know that every time a mobile phone sends out a GPS signal a bee loses it's way home, and every bee that doesn't reach it's hive dies?

So on nights when your pulse matches the beat of my favourite song
you don't have to wonder if it's me matching the syncopation of your silence --
and I wonder if you ever found what you were looking for.
And I wonder if you realise that on days you're not here I roll up my sleeves,
count the beats without you,
sit on the backseat and miss you.
And somewhere The Piano Man rolls up his sleeves
creates the Big Bang under his fingertips.
And in 2005 on an April morning in Sheerness, a suited piano man walks straight into the ocean,
begs the current to take him.

I send you a message
a bee loses it's way home.
I send you another
another bee dies.
My chest cavity is a bumble bee crypt,
my tongue a honeyed graveyard.

Another message.
The Big Bang.
The hive.
A suit.
That ocean.
Another back is broken.
Another message is sent.
I fear I am more honeycomb than heart.

To create is to destroy. To destroy is to succeed.
And would you just look at what these piano hands have finally done.

she was the kind of cold that was not affected by the temperature

he didn't know that making her cheeks blush warmed her soul

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.