they walked together

having never kissed

having never confessed

in a Friday night fug

of second-hand smoke

and discounted *****

that one loved the other

a deep love with many roots


they held hands when crying

as if another’s warm palms

would stem the flow somehow

but it never went further

never tiptoed past the threshold

no dates in restaurants

with pricy wine and staggered chat

no letters professing  

a long-gestated love


they watched movies

recited lines for a hundredth time

laughter rebounding from the walls

uttered secrets in whispers

said they’d be friends forever

knowing they would be

because sometimes that happens

What have I learned
except to coat my tongue in sand,
incinerate what was never created.

My golden ones, you haven't seen the start of it,
the shirking and shrinking
like an aborted flower.

If this is how it feels we should say so,
my head a corroded oven
and how expensive are the repairs.

The night descended to that.
You, sunny side up,
queasiness inhabiting you
as if a change of season,
eyes damp with lethargy.

We planned to depart,
myself, a few others,
spilling well-wishes through the door
to your sanctuary,
dreamcatcher holding your reveries,
books like sentences of teeth
on your shelves.

I left, passenger seat,
with my language a glue in the throat.
The episode quite gone,
thunderous concert of silence,
only windchime giggles that filtered
through the dark.

It is what has become customary.
The bullet-point reeling-off of events,
each spark with its own named shade.
My hollow words missing the yolk
of conversation, vacant bottles
lost to the ocean, skin flecked with rust.

I ought to love you more,
this platonic, solid love.
Perhaps I should **** myself free
from the shipwreck, dust off
my catastrophes and breathe,
revel in your odysseys, let you know
my spoke of mishaps,
let us accept each other with clean hands.

perhaps all we do

express

confess in droplets

or tsunami


and how many

to confess to

divulge the innermost

secrets from our sanctums


new decade crashes in

with your colour eruptions

what miles

seconds separate us


what to be said

said carefully

as if glass

in a child’s hands


confess our truths

at the time

await answers

like overseas mail


pen ink drunk

set for disclosure

answers to spark

for minutes for years

I.

cold winter morning
windscreens glazed in silver dust
pavements and grass wet

---

II.

crew of coloured shapes
clamour underneath the tree
concealed for now

---

III.

and the food comes in
steaming green vegetables
spuds like chunks of gold

now I must rediscover myself again

stretch the muscles, crack the bones

set the synapses back into action


what dazzling names will now come

to paint my throat, to whisk the mind

into some new year tornado


and the gap growing between us,

the existing handful, pinches of dialogue

that filter through the lightning cracks


sleep peppered with age-old blunders

what’s to come, a dull game

plagued with fanciful guesses

is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.

at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.

I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.