If only
I was
able to
open
your
skin,
healing
the wounds
you hold
deep in
you with
the touch
of my
hands,
for now,
I only
possess
these
words,
but, do
you not
see?
even
they are
not enough,
only you
are.

Between us and this divided sea
Between us and this dying sun
Between us and this pale blue sky
Between us and the raging tide
Between us and running time
Between us and yesterday's dreams
Between us and tomorrow's sleep
Between us and the drying leaves
Between us and winter's grave
Between us and summer's taste
Between us and this beating heart
Between us and what's beneath
Are the remnants of our interlaced
Fingers
Still holding onto
Love
Hope
And some reason to
Breathe

twitchy sniffly noses
silky bracelets woven
a sennight of whispers
and soft rains fallen
bones strident ringing
skins slow submerging
bloodshot eyes and
star-shot skies and
cheekbones shrouded
in staling chlorine

sneaking syrup smiles
under honey gold
four tonics drowned
to fight off the cold
and fast fortune-telling
for finites foretold
trace the lines and
face the folds, please
hold both palms closer
but leave them closed

twitchy ditzy fingers
***** rings unspooled
a sennight of stories
and sinking in pools
bones washed in phenol
skins slick like ferrule
bloodshot minds and
star-shot why’s and
wisteria lips speckled in
the warmest shade of cool.

This is a warfare;
                               we keep  it in photograph,
                               we keep it in pages,
                               we keep it a secret.

                              I thought I was a keeper

and then everything is heavenly
                                  You are beautiful at daytime,
                                  and shining bright at night.
                                  "You are ethereal"
                                                       ­          the distance is an animosity
                                                       ­          though, we keep on
                                                                ­ reaching  
                                                    ­             It is not about the
                                                             proximity
                                                                ­Yearning; we were still
                                                                ­looking at the same sky.

I thought I could keep you (as I keep everything about you)

you wouldn't  be able to held the sky as it was meant to be ethereal

Eyes snap like Polaroid:
that memory is captured
flat
so superficially it holds truths

but look more carefully at those colours
and the tunes they sing,
they make you think
something

something close to fingertips
on glossed pages
where other people's lives live
and mean little

but this is yours, ours,
and I’m holding the hours
holding on and shaking