Last night I slept in a white-walled room, surrounded by pinned butterflies framed with old love. They were so beautiful I wanted them as mine. Sheets fell as I stood and looked at each in turn, watched my own reflection ghost over their glass. I unpacked them. Held Lost to my heart ‘til its wings moved with my pulse. Took Lonely in my mouth ‘til it was whole. Peace settled in my hair. Regret hid. Lust danced in circles on my hand.

~

it’s been a good evening. now she’s wearing her robe and you’re sat with a drink watching telly. you lean forward to refill yours but spill it. she looks nervous for a moment and you think that’s sweet.

she thinks you drink too much- now she’s wary. she felt you eye each step she took when you were out. you lean in and she remembers winning every day at school, a silly playground game they called Don’t Flinch!

your mates fancy her- you saw them flirt. now she’s blush-pink and pretty and on your couch. she told you she was wet before you could order another round, so you didn’t bother. it’s really early, but you’re home.

she avoided talking. thought she’d stopped you getting gone. but you got Scotch in a drawer she didn’t find. half a bottle in, your eyes tell how gone you are. she’s sussing if you’ll get hard or just pass out.

you run a hand down the centre of her robe. reveal sheer knickers you’ve not seen her in before. you drag your fingers slowly from those knickers to her mouth- ask her where she got them- she doesn’t know.

(she looks scared and you think that's hot)

~

is it possible we touched?

that you spilled into me
thoughts like cigarette smoke?

silver threaded, exhaled in a rush

is it possible we spoke?

turned to whispers
the dark corners of our minds?

twined my words with your songs

is it possible we loved?

will again, you and I- immortal?

The medics are working frantically
to stem the flow of blood,
sterile dressing’s crimson red
as they fight to stop the flood,
a boy just barely twenty
blown to pieces by a mine,
in a country far away from home
his life’s now running out of time.

“And the men back home who sent him there
they just don´t give a toss,
Cos there´s more where he has come from,
his death to them is not a loss”

The medics have not slept for days
as they tend the constant stream
of the wounded, blind and dying
amidst the crying and the screams,
the Quartermaster’s ordered
another batch of body bags,
plasma, blood and dressings,
and for the coffins, another twenty flags.

“And the men back home who sent them there
they just don´t give a toss,
cos their agenda´s more important
than the counting of the cost”

they sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle,
wishing us well.