Words are like waves;
I wash up on
Your wine-dark shores.

Would you watch me, while I sleep? (Just a thought
So many other things you’d rather do,
I’m a probable loss, not really sought).
Would it so surprise you, if you loved too?

Pieces are designed to fit in puzzles,
And this puzzling world threw you my way.
I puzzle over you, and I struggle
To see the light, though it’s breaking my days.

I’ve seen bleak futures, lit by fireworks
Emblazoning hope in those ocean eyes.
I play with the pieces, turning your perks
Over, competing the potential highs
With perception. Potentially. You,
Enlighten me. Let me brighten you, too.

we are as sapling trees,
whose branches touch, but do
not yet meet, deciding
whether to twine our flow’rs.

the wind that makes me rush,
echoes through you, I know.
darling, grow, for I see
the sun shine in your eyes.

If the world is small, how is it also
Infinite? What whirls us round, throwing me
To you, for you? Every kiss, the world forgoes
Despair and turns again. What is to be
Flawed, is also divine. Logic dictates
That we are fleeting, and yet words linger
Through ages; we touch the souls, traverse straits
Of heroes thought (at world’s end), at fingers’
Touch we fall apart. Are we the stars’ dust,
Or the dust of bygone beauty? Why fall,
If all falls from us. We darest this, for just
Knowing you is proof of little at all,
And yet all is found in your star-filled eyes,
Turning on me, reflecting star-filled skies.

I’d write you a song, but we’re not ancient romans.
Nor am I particularly skilled. No -
I’ll make you a mix-tape. But then, you already
Like all the pop songs which sum us up. So,
What to do, what to do. How does one win a heart
These days? Romance is “dead”, so how to woo?
I’ll bake you cookies, cut them out in hearts, if that’s
Not too much american housewife. You
Should try them anyway. To the point, now, tricking
Kissing from Apollo. Nymph am I not.
You’re out of my league; your following is mine times
Six. I guess this poem is all I’ve got.

I sit and stare, the cursor taps, yet no
Words come to tell you of my, uh, sorrow.
That’s right, sorrow and I, yet ever grow
Much closer, for you seem - i’ll just borrow
From the bard; “my words fly up”, and yet you
Ignore me. Such is modern love. It flies
In the face of tradition. Still, you too
Have felt the spark? No? So, quick with the lies,
So suave. My internet flirt. Let’s dispense
With all of this. Coffee? A woodland grove?
Nothing too “poetry”. Though, in defense,
Of tropes, they are so sweet. Kissing and oaths
To love forever, will never lack style.
I’ve gone on, here. It’s coffee not a trial.

I once saw, scrawled
in marker pen;

The apocalypse
is now.
Its name is
Hoxton Bar.

(They forgot the And Kitchen, but not the Hellfire)

It’s only plaid,
Wire rims and knit.

Drink your day’s pay.

The apocalypse
Will come for us.
But not tonight.