In January there is a glow so gold that the bleak post-summer sky turns white
The Sun squints through stretches of clouds that hang over the Indian oceans
The Atlantic seas where the carp shiver and the trout bloat like flattened pufferfish
They sit between the edges of costal towns, like a hanging curtain pinned down by old wooden sea ports
Splintered and bruised by the ocean’s fierce love
By the fisherman’s tools
By the many boats of history, present and future
By the weary ropes that curl, like snakes, into spirals on the deck.
In January there is a glow so familiar and unchanging, like
Water finding the foot of the sandbank
Over and over and over.

In the night
the Ocean gyres around me
and lifts my heart,
wet, full and swollen
to the street lights,
oiled, slick and bright,
burning to touch.
But fearing against the
cold wind
like a stick of butter
to the hard refrigerator
like a warm hand
to a colder pair
-- the blue gyres and swarms and spins
me
to nausea, to dread.

seven minutes
before I am pushed to words
when the rain falls at my feet
and the grey in the sky parts
and the trees send wet leaves to touch my face

waiting
two dreams away
sitting in the half-way entrance
where we've said we'd meet

can you imagine a blue sun?
the world washed in, pale
the turquoise light swims in through your window
which you've left ajar
to see the open sky

seven minutes
before I open my eyes again
before I pinch myself
before I berate myself
for poisoning myself with wishful thinking
when i've said i'd give it up
again
for being the loser
and you, the winner
time and time again

when i realise you won't write back
I'll stop sending my letters to you.

when I realise you are stuck
behind a sheet of glass
in a frame
eyes half open, half closed
trapped in a smile
a seat
a time
and you don't know
what will happen next,
I'll stuff my fingers into your box
take my unwanted mail
and leave

the time turns to one o'clock
on my bed
shoulders hunched forward
dull eyes
forward
fixed onto a screen
scrolling
down.

the time turns to one fifty
the skin underneath my eyes heavy
but slick
weathered
browned
dark
like bruises on my face

the time turns to two o'clock
the door left ajar
blue light filter
permeates
darkness
the optometrist is
closed
on Tuesdays

the time turns to two forty
bad back
smelly mouth
oily skin
the screen stays on

i don't sleep

i want my friends back
i don't want their messages, or calls
or to see their screen-names
i want my friends
in solid human form
so i can put my arms around their shoulders
feel their bones
and hold them to me

I wonder how long it will take for me to destroy myself.
I wonder how much longer
I have before I
self-destruct
There's a bomb lodged in the middle of the bony hug of my ribcage
instead of a soft, gooey, beating heart
Counting down the seconds