the sink is stacked full
of week-old dishes
that i haven't found the energy
to wash-
the dishwasher's spoilt and
i haven't had time to call someone to repair it.
or maybe i'm just procrastinating.

the laundry-basket is overflowing
with clothes,
i've been too busy working to put them to wash.
or maybe i'm just procrastinating.

this is what you talked about.
taking the last clean shirt out of the closet,
swearing because i realize my laziness has caught up with me,
eating chinese takeout almost every night
because i love the chicken chow mien,
not caring that i'll soon get sick of it.

it's what you called "that searching",
wanting more and more and even more.
we want the cold days to end and the warm ones to come,
we want back the people we used to love.
we want to see spring again,
for the cycles of life to repeat themselves.
we're never satisfied.
this yearning, this feeling-
what you finally gave up.

i see it in the mirror every morning,
think about it when i spill the coffee because i'm hungover
from last-night's emotional breakdown.
i catch a whiff of it when i let the dog out,
when i'm buying a CD from the corner video store,
when i catch a glimpse of myself
in the car window.

and i am filled
with the knowledge that
i am alive;

for this, this is
what the living do+.
what you finally decided
was too much for you to take.

but that's okay.
lock the door behind you now,
and drive safe.

i've been spending the past
two nights
away from home.
it's hard to explain why i did;
you'd have found me sitting
on the beach at two
a.m. ; two bottles of jack beside
my lonely bones.

i think i was back again,
searching for something
i lost long ago.
i think it left the same time you did.
i've been smoking too much too,
wisps of gray plumes
fleeing those smooth white marlboros.

i swear too much.
i cut myself on a bottle cap
and threw it out into the sea.

i'm a wanderer.
i can see why you left.
but the smoke and the alcohol,
they're my substitutes for you.
i drink so much that
i don't even get drunk anymore.

it's just me
and a ghost of a soul
where you used to be.

Water  rushing  down  the  drains.
And  through  windswept  country  lanes.

Trees  brushing  water  away  with  their  leaves.
Birds  sheltering  under  the  eaves.

Pools  on  the  lawn  appear.
It,s  a  dreadful  night  I  fear.

Pitch  black  little  to  see.
A  new  day  may  set  us  free.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Whisper (x6)

I can see your face, honey, under the moon
I'll retrace my thoughts over your brow bone too
And I know that you'll love me, won't you?

I can taste your skin, under, my fingertips
I can feel your ****** hair surround my lips
and I know that we'll stay here like this...

Whisper (x5)

You're original, you're original
You are original, original, original to me
You're a miracle, you're a miracle, oh you're a miracle, a miracle, a miracle to me...

I know you're exhausted, boy
I'm tired too
Tiring to work by choice, more so to move
So let's be still, the morning's too soon

The rays are pouring out the window
I see them clear
Let the sun touch us, I know
You'll be right here
And you'll hold me, so tightly, so dear...

Whisper (x5)

And the days when it's just so hard to smile
Can we stay here, lay here, and whisper
A little while?
A little while

Whisper (x6)