This is a letter to myself
about someone else.
Her soul is a part of mine,
those strange moments
when her presence
shines in me
like a chiming bell.
Such a calming parallel;
both a hoping poet.

I don't like to know that
she was this afraid.
Dancing in the night,
a hundred treds,
more weight to shed.
Anyone can be angelical
but still gauntly dead
and I'm slightly dead
but if I go, what do I have
to leave behind?

I asked if she wanted to
hang out some time
and in my distress
I was a baby again.
She kept holding me.
But my sadness didn't fall asleep,
my bones became ...
too weak to leave.
Angelic women don't eat
so why should I?

We are prone to
upholding an image -
it makes me sick.
But the familiar feels safe
so I convince myself
I'm just anaemic.
You can see there's something
there behind our eyes
and we're not as
pretty as we seem.
There's something wrong
and it cries.