aren't they beautiful; all the bits we hold onto?
the smell of patchouli and the humour of a gold hoop earring -
a blue sequin dress and a tickle in your palm-
a waltz in the driveway and the silhouette of a tweed cap -
inky fairy wings and words written in the clouds when we need them most -
these empty spaces are electrically charged;
this is the art you leave behind.
this is how we remember you

Still water
resting
at the
bottom
of a
Pacific ocean
tide
pool,

reflections
of you
in my
mind
in the
Sunday
morning
light.

sometimes
I can imagine
I hear you
laughter
carried in
harmony
to me
on a
a salt-kissed
circling
wind.

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always
smile.

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
manner
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are


where
good  poets
go to
die.

Two day ago in therapy I wrote you a love poem:
A physics equation quantifying the emotional clarity that is brought by your proximity,
With love as a fundamental constant and a scalar summation of circumstances' mental momentum.

The next evening,
You told me you were going to sleep with a friend,
But the thought of sharing you makes me viscerally sick,
But worse is the ache, the knowledge
That you crave their touch too.

It's a slither underneath my ribs,
Tensing pressure that constricts my lungs and crushes the bone,
Venom through my veins,
Stopping at my heart.

But,
Love is constant,
Love is kind.
And, god, I've fallen in love with a selfish serpent.

the sky is a surface of flesh
         with clouds like bruises
                      spread throughout.
             at night, her freckles of stars
form constellations
                       that only
                                  she
                                     ever sees,
for she hides them like silver secrets  
that spike up from tongues unknowingly.
                               she wishes
                                    to be beautiful,
but the clouds cover her body
         and she’s drowning in the rain.