loneliness,
cold and empty as
the winter sun
it slithers in
the back of my mind
coiled around every
doubtful thought,
encasing them in a prison of
paranoia.

i wonder who i am in
your mind,
a withering flower,
a wavering voice over
the phone?

i am afraid of how you
see me,
how one day, my fear may
overflow, making me
unredeemable.

oh, how i try so hard
not to wither in your eyes,
not to fall or need
reassurance.

i try to be a fairy,
a maiden, a wonderful
mystery
but the spell has fallen away
leaving only myself,

and i have never felt
more alone.

i close my eyes
as the Metro carriage sways
from side to side
giving off that constant
comforting roar
as it flies along the
winding northern track
that ends at nowhere
special.

i used to get off a Pelaw;
the platform there seemed like
a concrete field of possibility
where love was just
on the other side.
now it seems wide,
grey and pointless.

a forlorn nostalgia washes over
me as i pass Pelaw station.
it is winter now,
and the memory of those days
warms my cold morning
mind
as i wind past it
always looking back.

hot tea kisses nurtured
lips
and the morning is patient
and barely speaks.
cold hands are warmed
under bedsheets
and wordless admiration
silently exhales.
mundane tasks become
a thoughtful feat
and sitting by the fire at night
i flutter into a loving sleep.
gentle time passes
dotingly
for she knows of such innocent
longing.
satisfaction beyond peace embraces
day and night,
being is effortless here
there is no need to take flight.

dark’s peering into day,
wonder when the dew’ll lay;
time’s slowed as skies turn static,
least the hours are less erratic.
orange lamps glow
outside a misted window;
earthy rain’s falling hard
but fire’s lit and sky is starred.
sometimes mist deceives the eyes:
seen silent figures’ quick demise.
ocean spits over the pier,
almost as grey as the Wear;
lighthouse shines it’s steely beam,
illuminating the horizon’s seam.
heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron,
far away seems unearthly Zion;
harvest moon’s not as vague:
illuminating an eight-legged plague.
crows spectate above and below,
you’d be surprised what they know;
change leers at every bend,
nostalgia seems an only friend.
the veil is thinner than before,
perhaps open is another door;
harvest season’s coming to an end,
fields of Elysium this way wend.

morning: my least favourite time
of day, is made not so bad by
a slice of buttered toast and a
black coffee.

morning: when my hair is a mess and
my sheets cling to my damp
skin, is made not so unhappy
by the sunlight spilling in.

morning: when my eyelids are
heavy and i’m too tired to speak,
when my lips are dry and my
thoughts are static;

i think i’ll put the kettle on, and
sink into the day: slowly, slowly,
slowly, so that the hours trickle
away.

i’ll remember the sound of the
ocean gently lapping the shore, and
the sound of birds chirping - which birds
i can’t be sure -
i’ll remember my feet blistering, and the
taste of red wine
i’ll remember the blue 10pm sky
and two magpies giving a
sign.

most of all i’ll remember the restless
joy that i feel, my yearning that reels,
my eagerness to escape and
my emotions, slowly taking
shape.

sky’s pale till midnight,
satellite glided overhead like some
wandering speck of dust caught in
a patch of sunlight,
and the moon’s hung, like a curled
white eyelash upon the lens of
heaven. i made a wish upon her -
as you are supposed to with
fallen lashes -
though i mustn’t say it, or it mightn’t
come true.
it floats like a feather upon a
stream: hopeful. but to where? i
am not entirely sure.
hopefully
to Lune.

taste the bitterness upon flowering
buds, it’s a bliss known only
to those who can bite the dark
and see the beauty within it.

sadness that sweeps the eyelids
into a lead-heavy lethargy,
an awake weariness that
flicks through every bad thought
and pulls me from sleep;
like heavy curtains being dragged
across the threshold of
my vision - where all conscious
thought is a bleeding burden.
i just lie here waiting;
waiting for what? i do not know.
all i know is that i
cannot sleep.

painted my nails, nice and
red, glossy.
smiled at the sky,
moon: silent woman in
a white dress.
slept,
eyes rolling;
sweet surrender.

breeze and distant
traffic whisper,
smells like lavender,
words get scrawlier,
head full of coffee and dreams of
green.
it’s just another day, sky’s blue,
sleep’s on my mind;
all i see is concrete.
it’s noon.
how is it noon?

love, i dream of you
often. my
mind is lost in a
haze aphrodite
cast upon me;
my skull is a
honey-***,
waiting to be
scooped
up by some loving
hand.

cocooned, like some hungry
butterfly desperate to flee
once more into the world,
i stare at the sullen clouds from
my kitchen window and
sigh with longing.

if only i were a leaf, or a
feather:
then a soft breeze could carry me
anywhere.

hi. this past week went by like
a half forgotten dream: the time
passed too quickly,
i did very little and
i seem to remember the time i slept
and dreamt better than my
waking moments.
my mind has been scarce of
creativity and
even thought - though
i am healthy i feel
quite lifeless.

today is white and
dull, days like this
sometimes feel like static, like
the world is buffering,
like
the time has come to a halt.
i don’t usually miss the sun, but
these days are dull to
begin with.
i sit all day staring at screens and do
not much else - i’m growing quite
tired of it. but
on days such as these i feel
i barely have a
choice, so here i sit writing to you
and i am not all displeased.

at least i can say i wrote
today.
but what will all of this writing
come to? maybe
a poem, or a love
note, or a memory. or maybe
it will be something i can
look back on,
and giggle at how
silly
and sentimental i am.