My heart is not here.
It is elsewhere.
I only tend to this cage,
awaiting its return.

I wake at night
and, peering into the dark,
stare longingly at shadows.
Here the world is still,
and yet within me
a torrent.

I live my life,
but something is clasping at my throat.
Forceful, eager,
it is there right now.
I try to keep it down,
I bite my tongue and drown it
with the usual poisons,
but this only urges it.
It fights me;
I only contain it.
Each bout spurs renewed vigour.

It is there at my throat,
waiting for me to scream.

I cannot write.

I put aside the pen,
I turn off the light.
I step outside
into the falling dusk,
lowering my head
as if to console myself,
whispering tenderly,
'this is only temporary.'

It has been years,
I still cannot write.

I am stuck in limbo
awaiting tragedy,
as a leaf awaits a gust
to tear it free from its branch.

I am shrouded in stillness;
a blissful peace.
I will look back on these days and think
"I did not know what I had"

Not far from now,
life will twist into a cascade
of irreversible losses.
I can feel it stirring,
an everlasting sorrow,
like the wind kicking leaves at my feet.

I will change forever.

Few things in life
feel as divine as
forgiveness.

To be told
that I am worthy
of a new start,
feels miraculous.

For all my mistakes,
I am not without hope.

I confess,
I do not know if I will make it.
The road ahead is long.
My time here is short.

I have heard
that the end of each journey
is just the start of another.
I hold these words closely
as I walk into the encroaching night.

I no longer love you,
but in recollection
I would still use
as many words as before.

A heaving dog struggles to its feet.
Streaks of
the sun,
egg yolk,
lemonade,
coalesce in foam.
I look it in the eye
as it limps away.