In the almirah corner, it lay,
Day after day, untouched, unseen grey.
Dun and dusted, its shimmer gone,
Once proud, now forlorn.

It first adorned a joyous frame,
The groom's pride, a life to claim.
A new suit for a bride so fair,
Their union sealed, a love to wear.

From meetings to galas, it bore the strain,
Day in and out, through sunshine and rain.
Before mirrors, it struck a pose,
Before cameras, it proudly rose.

Time marched on, as time will do,
The suit's threads faded, its purpose too.
The owner retired, and with a sigh,
The suit found its place where old things lie.

Beside medicines and x-ray scans,
It watched the world through aging hands.
But love rekindled a gentle spark,
The suit was worn, its journey embarked.

No goals to chase, no grand parade,
Just a quiet walk in the evening shade.
With a smile that spoke of days well-spent,
The suit revived in an instant of love.

For the owner well knew, as wisdom grew,
The suit was something more than just threads and dye.
It held the story, the love, the pride,
A lifelong friend with him through the times that glide.

Gunmetal grey skies
loose leaden teardrop tempests —
Lights in the window

My Guy,
Don’t be afraid to cry.
My Man,
If you want, take my hand, and we will make a plan.
My Brother,
I will stand with you forever, no matter the weather.

Do not be like that Man,
Who Frost penned,
And take a breath at the Inn.

For those else who need respite,
Do take my hand without worry nor fright.
For I hope these words bring you delight,
In a world where light shines a little less bright.

For together we grow,
Amongst the stifling snow.
Our priors will disappear in the fires,
Born out of our pure desires.

The night is not long,
Or full of terror,
When we are together,
To chit and chatter till dawn.

As the snow has been laid,
We go our separate ways,
On to better days.

Till we meet again,
Perhaps at another inn,
I will see you later,
My friends.

In an old Scottish town I walk in well-worn streets
framed by tall houses of stone.
I study their faces that lean in to meet
me: In their presence I don’t feel alone.

The old houses have faces with many glass eyes.
What have those windows all seen?
They stand watch over us like dispassionate spies
with a vision that’s eerily keen.

What strange things that these walls could all tell
if their silent stones began to shout.
But they say nothing at all of the people who dwelt
all around them, within and without.

I came to trust these rock-ribbed friends
who give shelter and keep silent watch.
Reliably they forever our secrets defend
and are just there for us, a loyal lodge.

Losing fragments of your essence— those fresh nicks from a heavy
blade on your hair; each strand carries the legacy of generations,
a tale waiting to be shared with your heirs. Ears dulled by the
overwhelming tide of emotions, as the ocean of your tears are
divided for the two days you permit yourself to weep. There’s a
Moses in your gaze, appearing on weekends when the burdens
of the week leave you feeling so weak.

Knees trembling under the weight of an unyielding deception—
striving to connect to an acceptable truth; through a faith that has
morphed like a password to someone’s compromised Wi-Fi.
Choked by the very words you struggle to articulate; those
emotions blur the line between reality and forgetfulness.

Tonight, you ventured out to dance with your own spirit—both
hands firmly on yourself; yet the crowd feels a bit too touchy,
with those who aspire to be G.O.A.Ts You turn to them and say,
“Please keep your kids in your pants.”

Your hair was shorter than the breath it takes to articulate your
thoughts, as you begin to feel like a transparent shard of glass: a ghostly
figure they see through. You entered this multitude hoping to remain
single, but to at least mingle with kindred souls who endure every hit
life throws their way, encapsulated in a brief collection of life’s greatest
hits from a solo artist’s single. We all crave that connection with people.

let them love you this way:

with long drives to far away destinations
with the sole purpose of finding a beach
that feels right underfoot.

with car park crying
and laughing and debriefs
that echo long into the night.

with celebratory drinks
and pub feeds
and sometimes the odd fancy dinner.

with mid week check ins and soup left on door steps
messages of poems and songs that make them think of you
(i need you to know that you deserve to be thought of)

with hands soaked wet
by dishes you didn’t want to wash
and with blankets pulled up to chins.

let them love you this way.  
softly and in all the ways that count.
all they ways you haven’t been loved before.