You fall out of love like a habit.
Nobody told you that even when they say
'there are no wrong answers',
there's always one that rings all the wrong bells.
You say, 'Maybe strawberry ice cream is my favourite',
and suddenly alarms go off in his head
'How? What? Nobody likes strawberry icecream!
This one is defective! Return to Sender!'
This one is defective.
You were mass produced
on a supply line for antsy, lonely nineteen-year olds.
This was their best year yet; the whole world is aching
but we're sorry to inform you but
Models made after 1995 are no longer supported.
To the scrapyard, then.
You fall and tumble and crawl out of love
like it's out to get you.
Like it's got its teeth in you,
nails tearing into flesh,
holding your ankles and begging you
I’ve got a signboard pinned to my chest.
“Beware of the door. Trespassers will be
versed and put in rhymes.”
Ten-thousand volts of electricity for the man
who dare enter; an auction of body parts
is the central theme to my story.
I gave away my heart to the one with the easiest ways
and my mind for whom I could not find
my tongue. Every time my heart skips a beat
sirens wail into madness and lights start
rolling into the night. I wear barbed
wires as a wristwatch: telling me to
wake up whenever I have a sleepless night.
Put your ear to my chest and you’ll hear
clanking of bolts out of place and the death rustle
of a mechanical beast settling
into his bed for the long, long
I die small deaths at the hand of remembrance.
Wear me like a red poppy on your lapel;
I want you to remember me like this:
in the rain, my summer dress
sticking to my body, cutting a figure
you've never seen: sadness.
She looks like sadness, she looks
like a tired box of bones with her arms
calling out for love.
My eyes running with the water,
and repeating your name like some
and your arms like anchors and holding.
Nobody is ever going to love you like I do,
I said and you listened.
You listened then,
in the broken opus of rain hitting tin roofs,
and the ground melting at the touch of something
But what of it, anyway.
You're going to need a bigger bunch
of flowers than this to make it right
You can tell his hands have worked to the bone,
dirty fingernails tracing art in the dark of the room.
Dust scattered on the floor, the desk, the lamps.
He hasn't been here in a long time: seven years
to be exact. What he left behind was a book
filled with love and somewhere two weeks after
he dies, a twelve year old girl will find it.
And read it cover to cover until she became
a love story in herself.
You can ask the sky
how many times she's sighed at the passing
of someone she's never met, and feels she knows
Love means never being forgotten
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt
when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids
who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries
will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?
This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on