There’s a stage in a relationship when you know that it’s dying and it’s when you breathe out when they leave the room. You know you’ve stopped being the ideal they kissed on a mountaintop when they forget to ask how your day was or would you like a tea. When they no longer touch you with curiosity you will know for sure that the relationship is dying and that is when you start to die too. It happens slowly, like most irreparable erosion. First you don’t get out of bed for 3 days because you can’t imagine what it’s like to not live inside each other, then you travel the world arranging big dreams of a future together by whispering incantations into the wind about your magnificent love. You get back home with exotic adventures trailing behind you and set up a house in a favourite city. You buy a dog together and you can’t stop singing from roof tops. You go out to movies on Tuesdays and have Sunday breakfast in cramped trendy cafes together and become a regular couple at the local Thai hot spot at Saturday dinner time. Just when you think that your joy has reached it’s zenith, you create a whole lot of trophies from that love bond and give them a life-force and names. The thing is, those mini humans can’t imagine living without you either. It gets crowded in your heart chambers. Suddenly you start to compartmentalise your feelings for all these people that are suddenly tied to you because of that double-edged sword called love.

There is a sound in a house when it’s occupants have left for the day and it isn’t silence.
It’s more of a dull collective hum of electrical appliances enjoying the chance to indulge their expression without the need to shout over humans.
There is the echo of words whispered in soft tones and the violent ones exchanged in heated debate, also the screams and laughter and the bark of dogs.
There is the sound of unfolded washing, waiting patiently to be transitioned from unkempt mess to organised functionality in a drawer or cupboard.
Their sound before such a transformation is heavy and unlovable, but once the task of folding is completed, they fall silent, thankful to have reached their destiny this week before their new cycle of destruction of order begins.
Toys, where does one start with the sound of toys in the absence of playmates. Their sound is dependent on how loved they are and how much time they have left before they, like a wife after 20 years of marriage, are replaced by the upgraded model, the new and better version.
But it’s the breakfast things, the things left on the table, half eaten toast and a mauled boiled egg that have the most sound.
It’s the sound of a dwindling life force struggling against its fate to be recycled in the compost, like us.
That sound is a deafening silent scream of a resistance to endings, an inevitable journey back into nothing.

.

Your ink,
sadly spilling
on fresh tablecloths
with torn lace trim
beyond paper napkins
absorbing the smiles
you should be smiling

Darkened tear drops
drenching emotions,
free flowing sorrows
collected in fractured phrases,
penned stanzas now
erasing happiness
in dull pink smudges

When just outside
the sun sits behind heavy drapes
drawn tightly closed
on panoramic picture windows
waiting to frame the beauty
of spring for your eyes
in nature’s poetry

So open them,
(your eyes and the drapes)
behold the wonder
where small children play
and laughter scents the air
allowing light to enter that ink,
your ink

Hands trickle down your naked body like a soft morning mist.
Spreading your legs to expose your beauty.
Petals of your beautiful rose shine and welcome me.
Lookin deep into your eyes straight into your heart.
My tongue caresses your flower, sipping from your fountain.
Your body moves gracefully in pleasure.
Placing my hands on your hips to grip and lick...
Feeling you grip my tongue involuntarily as you climb to the point of ecstasy.
Gaining speed, grabbing on tighter.
Your body trembles wrapping your love in mine
expressing mine physically
Connected mentally
Her rain falls down ... Not a drop hits the sheets

A name is a name
to which someone is giving

for how they act
or how they look

for what they do
or what they say

But the name you have given
me is none of the above

for I did not act how you say
I do not look how you think

I did not do what you whispered
I did not say what you spread

I am not fake
and I am not a loner

Because to be fake
is to act like someone you are not

And to be a loner
I would have to want to be alone

But I do not know who I am
so I cannot act like someone else

And I cannot leave this ****** house
because of the scars etched across my skin where your words inflicted them

I am not what you say I am
I do not what you say I do
I just try to be the best possible me there is
Without knowing me at all

I don't have any....
Like at all....
No way would this work...
I'm leaving anyways,
There is no time for anything
At all
To happen