yellow light from the coach station
against marble houses-that we wish
we could buy- reminds me of the silver
moon we watch when we’re high.
now I’m crying into the duvet
and feeling far away from whispered
happy compliments I don’t know how
to describe you but you’re mine but
it’s time for a forest fire to still the fire
in my heart. I start to want to hold you
forever though my forever is over
my love, my never again. feeling your body
pulse with each sleeping breath reminding
me of death and I don’t want you to go.
I like being bad when I’m with you, sad
though it might seem when we dream
and you ask me to speak french when I’m
smoking cigarettes, trying to forget the plans
we made. we plan to go to europe because all
our dreams sparkle under the weekend skies,
you sigh, I can’t get back from here, my dear,
I fear I don’t know what’s real anymore,
what to feel anymore. your broad shoulders,
we’re getting older, they wrap around me &
your eye lids flutter, reminding me of a kind of
innocence we have yet to discover, my lover.
now the sun is beating down on london parks
where we sit and talk and dream, it seems
you are so beautiful reading kerouac,
what a cliché but we’ll get away, by megabus,
counting our change, courting our lust,
on 5 hour bus journeys from city to city
ambitions to home, joy to pity.
cuddling to britpop, we keep popping
pills and thrills and whatever is going.
don’t go, I know I’m a romantic
(you have no idea) your passions kills
and your mind excites, I might have to die
tonight, I might. I want you in the kitchen-
I can never untie my shoelaces- living on shoestrings,
tightropes and other things, I think that drinking
in cinemas could be a new favourite pastime,
are you still mine? drowning in wine, I know
I cry too much, but touch me. that night we went
out in your car to the docks, no stars, but you still
shone for me. buckingham palace is against a grey
sky tonight, against us but we still try- england is mine,
england is mine. we don’t usually kiss in public.
I used to spend a lot of time in the cathedral,
scribbling poems in the crypt, hoping something
would stick, but we drift towards a moment now,
my muse. you use me. red flowers in the buckingham
palace breeze, I breathe in daydreams of paris and patti smith
I keep rehearsing my life, it seems.