Midsummer chill is a call-back.
Struck cold, the bodies congregate in the breeze,
not quite believing the sting of frost
unaccustomed to the weight of clothes, they wait.

when I saw you I was cold
I touched my absent calluses
your beard was rough and my skin brushed red

The trek up the cliff smelled of ash -
the blacked trunks paved the way through the clay
and a moments silence sang of little deaths,
little burnt wings and tails.

you bought a litre of water and gave it to me
but after two swallows I was freezing
you finished the whole thing

In the changeling hour, the domestic rabbit waits
for the world to stop moving, nystagmic eyes wide.
Hearing into the next world, it wonders where
the wailing winds come from, and where they'll go next.

we had met in winter and, frozen in place
didn't see the thaw until it was too late
your eyes were still ice, beckoning

The peak was idyllic green and brook blue.
Winds and sea forgotten they jumped into the pool
shaking the mud away and summoning the summer storms
they prayed for a quick forgiving end.

in a state of half dreaming little death
5.05 AM woke us and clothed us
bugs waved from the shower floors as they drowned

The flatlands had called the unknowing away from sin
only some were left behind in beds of expectation,
of sweat and love
of breath and lust

a taxi found you fast
but your arms found me faster
I was warm the whole way back

It was doomed from the start.
Deadlines don't make for happy endings
or happy beginnings, but we made do,
the trickling sands tickling sans cesse
and the seasons passing by and waving
(good practice for tonight, I guess).
You'll be gone tomorrow.

What season would you be, then?
Midwinter spring, as Eliot said
or a Fall chill fighting summer?
One that makes us stay in bed
with the rain at our doorstep.
But seasons come back-
You'll be gone tomorrow.

I'll pray to the god of small moments
for the silences and your hands
for the absentminded kisses
-like that time we floated in a pool
under a cave, surrounded by oranges
and i thought: this is it-
You'll be gone tomorrow.

I did know what was coming
and I've tried to prepare
even though I'd have to stifle tears
when I made my way back home
skirting glances from strangers,
I did try. Will it be enough, I wonder.
You'll be gone tomorrow,

and yet.

I hope I’ll think back to those days unchecked:
When we didn’t stray too far from our den
In the Latin Eden, we were ship-wrecked,
In love, or in something unnamed, unpenned
When the cold winds were the perfect excuse
To touch each other, besotted, bemused -
As if we were the first. Lost in your blues
Or grey stares, one with the red duvet, fused.

I hope when spring comes we’ll still be frozen,
Together, despite the thaw. The garden
Overgrows with ****-like worries, swollen
And over-ripe. But I am stranded in
Too deep to feel the pull of dreams of spring.

I would melt for one more chance to be with him.

It was raining –as it is wont to do
in Autumn. Drenched, in search for refuge
I wandered streetlamp lit Madrid with you
with closed umbrellas. We liked the deluge,
and our hands were warming up each other.
The city quiet started to settle
closing in, shivering – so we smothered
ourselves inside, clinging and dishevelled,
the only open café, laughing when
you spilt your tea and then your lips on mine.
We were laughing still when the drunkards spent
our time, hostages drunk with no wine.
It was raining when I left, early dawn
and raining when I saw you, smiling on.

That day his world ended in fire,
Not in ice.
Only when earth was scorched and tired
Air burnt with screaming pyres
Would you wish for this advice:
When it's darkness' time to reap
Hope your world will end in ice,
To make you sleep,
But never twice.

Should-haves* are dangerous words in my ears –
They’ll side with the season’s expectations
Weaving thoughts in absent dreams where my fears
Take shape, conquering pulses’ vibrations.
Might is not a word that speaks reliance
Paired with fits of unrequited musings.
Alas it’s through my stubborn defiance
That I predict the eventual choosing
By an uninformed heart of another.
Greater signs I should read for me to see
This storybook ending in love – rather
Your indifference speaks harsh truths, agreed.
But sharp pangs still dumbfound me, ripping tears
In a heart that should have loved, did not dare.

I stutter you -
Lips fumbling,
Blushing,
Tongue-startled
When you hurdle
Past, gone.

I utter you -
Whispering,
Gushing,
Open-mouthed
Syllable housed
Sighs, stretched long.

I said you -
Trembling
While hoping,
Fist clenched,
In defiance, quenched
The fear of no.

I answered you -
and this time
you heard

"Who do you love?"

You.