­                                         I dream
                                                           ­                         of falling
                                                                  in love,      
                                                I've been.      
                                    trying.                 
          everyday,              
  Yet when                          
                  I finally                                                          ­        
  find                                                          ­                  
some                                          ­                                                
body,                                                           ­                                                     

I,        ­                                                                 ­                           

        
                 push.                                                            ­


                  Them.


                                                         ­                                  *Away

I pray to a silent God,
To teach me his way,
To rid me of every little
Awkward thing I say.

For I am not a poet,
As I so often dream,
I'm just a little boy, who's
been taught how to scream.

So relieve me of this voice,
That broke my hearts wealth,
And let me sit here in silence
Let my soul speak for itself.

Your voice,           still hums
Through the silent scent of candles,
Curling up like a blanket around my skin.
Warm sheets of orange linen,
Lingering with perfume,
And memories,
Of you.

I live a little life,
In a brittle little room.
Where everyday I sleep,
Where every night I loom.
And, it's a nice place to hide,
From the little things I'm feeling.
I've taped flowers to the wall,
And a sky to the ceiling.
And every little thing,
I wish I could say.
Is in a little poem,
That perhaps
you'll read
someday.

You are but a shadow in the sunshine of my imagination,
And though I understand, that I was never intentional,
Surely accidents aren't erased by the burning of pictures.
And I still wonder how could my life have been small enough to squeeze into a plastic bag,
Handing it to me on my fathers empty doorstep like some goodwilled goodbye gift,
(But I guess mothers are always better at packing).
I do hope, however, that Ian's grip fade far away,
like the 1am echo of your tear soaked cheeks,
And that cold bruises will heal before a warmer man,
Someone whose hands will float gently onto yours,
Carried upon the last draught of winter,
This time, forever.
Maybe you'll have a fifth child - an only child,
One for whom I pray there's a shred of chance you'll learn to love.
But meanwhile, the little boy that you keep safe,
In the ashes of a cold fireplace,
Impolite dinner conversations,
Or the memories you'd rather forget,
Will be waiting, always waiting,
For a shadow, in his little world of sunshine.