I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.

I see you staring at me
The clear statement in your eyes:
"You're sick, you're sick"
Words unsaid, but deeply meant.

And then the winning question:
"Have you taken your pills yet?"
Suspended there
Like you have the right to ask.

As if that is the reason
We keep having these issues,
These creeping doubts,
In our claustrophobic lives.

Because I've taken my pills.
Swallowed them like tasty sweets
Always hoping
That they'd get caught in my throat.

No, it isn't the issue,
They always do their duty.
It's time to face
That we are the **** problem.

Fell asleep.
A dream within a dream.
My pillow a thin tartan blanket
we found crumpled at the back
of your cupboard,
discovered like a pearl
in an oyster or two.

Five metres away,
the sea,
graveyard of lungs
slinks kitten-like
towards the soles of our feet,
a cocktail of voices
swimming in the wind.

I scrabble for your hand.
It is smaller than I remember.
Feel the deep lines
criss-cross
across your palm,
specks of sand
corkscrew up a thumb.

Your hair is seaweed,
still dripping from when
you took a dive,
gulped up by the sea,
and gone gone gone.
I treat you
like my favourite secret.

Only an hour
has passed.
The waves shush us both
so I count the clouds.
They move as lazily
as the fingers of a clock.
And then, my eyes are shut.