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Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I missed you.

Oh how I missed you; like a wandering
traveller waiting for the new light on the darkened
foreign streets to everywhere.
And so our travels go like this…

Like the traveller delayed, already departed from home,
yet still searching for the next greatest ambition, dream, landscape of contentment
I felt the sludge of home-sickness;
a deepened breath when I heard from you again.
And to keep the sick down;
I realised what I hadn’t been able to say;
words choking my throat, razor edges skimming,
drawing slivered cracks in my breath.

I realised my feet had been standing still the entire time,
out of phone calls and the sound of smiles from the other line,
a companionship was never too hard to resist from you.
The tricky little games of life and feeling weren’t so stressful to navigate,
compass, map, rushed footsteps dancing along the roads to you.
Neither were your hands ever unwanted;
you could carve such brilliant sculptures of me with your fingers,
roaming, heated, the quickened pulse under mingling collarbones.
Lying with you reminded me of your talents, your greatness
that integrity and solid stillness out of place anywhere
but with

A picture postcard of me and you.

Coming together again on beaten, dusty paths of the sweat and painfully
sharp air we breathe,
a kiss.
Was all it took.
I returned home all over again.
My feet were still standing still.
The miss, the bursting heart, hot and explosive to rekindle everything.

I divulged what ticked over in my head, the beats my heart skipped over you.
Blurted it out over the fear that
what is gone is completely gone.
Taking a step back to take that step forward again.
I made you reconnect with all your burdens;
over me and everything we touched together.
*** returned to the table, but I found out I know longer
wanted to own it, want flowers placed in a vase without purpose.
And we all went back again;
I missed our friendship, our coupled retreat, I missed how we used to simply be.
But I can learn to regret the risky flights I took with you,
and the physical became one.

The sad truth, is that I will never be able to stay at home forever.
I need to tell you I miss you but I also can’t be with you forever.
Paths are not worn down, they are not trekked, nor found
at the end if I am resting, waiting,
for them all to meet me.

I feel sorry for returning home, knowing my bags are already filled
for another adventure, another place.
But I can’t take home with me.
I can’t take you with me.
I feel sorry for making you dredge it up for no reason,
for lies, for misinterpretation;
I wanted to tell you before you opened up to it, to save you from shame.

And now I wrap my arms around myself,
to shield against the lonely slow footsteps I take now,
bags packed full of me, to take with me and remind myself,
of who I am, and where I will be going;
Don’t think I don’t feel despicable;
about making you feel about your feelings for me again, for no reason in the end.
I can only feel guilty and sick to the core for so long.

But now I wander. I can still love you
like home,
but I can also be free.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I’m worried for you.

I’m worried about what I’ve done with you.

I’ve buried you in the sand, grazed your skin with fingernail cuts;

half moons pattern your arms and back like wallpaper.

I shouldn’t succumb to this.

I’ve dragged you into a pit and stored you in a hollow.

I shouldn’t need to pick a random lover, I shouldn’t need them now,


I shouldn’t crave the physical I know you yearn from me behind the


that snakes around the room.

Behind the intensity and firmness of your face.

I wish I didn’t see it all so keenly, a sensory power I dredge up

from secluded stores and hidden vaults.

I shouldn’t have fallen into my own snare every single time you

pull closer, warm breath and lips and teeth,

and I push your chest away.

I don’t understand why I have to do this.

Puppet pulled on strings to do strange and filthy acts;

gaining strength and poise not necessary but pleasurable,

lying with you knowing I’m with company but feeling so alone,

so cold and dusty and ***** on the inside.

I lose myself in a moment, spending all the time

thinking in the moment.

I’m so wrapped up, I don’t hear you mutter to relax.

I will not do this with you, because it means

ultimately hurting one another, in particular you.

I will not try to encourage you, because me lying next to you

knowing you will hand yourself over, is like slipping on ice.

I taste blood in my mouth.

I think it’s yours.

I bled out years ago, over the bedroom and into the bathroom;

showering off filth and wetness and ****** handprints.

That lingering, thick smell of sweat and fluid and nothing.

I’m so sorry I can’t be strong enough to resist my shadows,

my faded lights and creeping tongues;

I’m so sorry I set them on you, like vultures given

the scent of already culled meat.

I am your predator, hunting amongst the heaving animals,

long into the stillness of the empty dawn.

I’m so sorry, sweet, that I will reach around and take something from you.

I’m so sorry I tried to protect you and betrayed myself.

I wanted to embrace you and welcome how you felt in my arms,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.

I wanted to make sure to uncomplicate us; secure that safety you felt

with me guiding you too all those vulnerable places to touch together,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.

I still long to try again.

Will you let me try again?
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
Nights of thinking alone,

gathering my proofs,

I’m still unsure you were real.

I loved the sweet caress of your voice,

the way your mouth shaped my name,

your eyes hovering lazily over mine.

I loved the soft touches and frenzied hands,

as you carried and explored me, explored together

in bed sheets and a summer night’s heat.

Balcony doors embraced the ocean with open arms

before us, the tingle of adventures together

left tickling my skin.

It was a night that brought so many gifts, so many

tender looks and sprawling affections

laying waste to the floor.

But it was a night left to my fantasy.

No videos, photographs, Facebook statuses

or afterwords of gratitude.

A night left as bundles of touches and

portions of tangled desire beautifully coiled like

ropes inside my head.

I need those proofs.

I need to know that love-nest even happened.

That it wasn’t some sickened dream I had,

whilst I cried in bed alone that it would soon

all end;

a frayed and ***** heap of pity left in place of you.

My heart would conjure anything to protect me from you.

My heart would drill holes in those fragments if it meant

lies from you, if it meant little pieces of love you could

hurt me with.

My heart is grateful for what you showed me,

the love you painted with me, for me, over me.

My heart is still in love with the times we shared,

the memories that glide around silkily in my sleep;

but my heart is also still frightened, of you.

And what power I gave you, over me, to make me

weep and search for evidence like this.

To finally know you loved me, or not.

Because that is what it needs doesn’t it?

Prove that it needs to, that it’s real.

Were you real beneath my fingers?
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I live a life collecting pieces.

Pieces of fantasies forever the

realm of


Pieces of imaginations turned wild and wonderful.

Pieces of laughter, confusion, delight and tears.

Pieces of melancholy, shards of sorrow;

fragments of regret, portions of jealousy.

Sections of desire, passion, leading us on

blindly to others of

heartache and yearning.

The rough edges of frustration, yet the

smooth curves of contentment, peace.

I live a life collecting pieces;

this is what I’m told makes a life worthy.

Worthy of remembrance, joy; fulfilment.

But only I can see the struggles,

feel my bones bearing more weight;

the aching tiredness I fall into,

when I’m not at work,

collecting the pieces I speak of.

The fright I hastily pick up off the ground,

when I compare my clumsy, ***** array of

pieces to your perfect and bound ones;

when you aren’t looking.

The dread I reach for, because you leave it crushed

beneath your feet.

The nervous tension pulling strings beneath my skin;

leaving me a reckless, vulnerable puppet

collecting the pieces left in your wake.

Torn to scattered, dusty pieces;

Reborn a puzzle of simplicities,

bright and shining pieces woven into form.

No matter where we have been, where we

were taken,

where we were loved,

where we were betrayed,

where we fought bravely,

where we surrendered nobly,

where we were embittered,

where we learnt of strengths and weaknesses;

we are all made of pieces.

We are collections of pieces.

You and I.

Our collection is known as life;

each piece is our experience of something.



And the more we know each other, the more

often our hands can reach for two of the same,

available pieces left before us.

I pen them down, keep them special and fragrant.

I live a life collecting pieces

and often they are of you.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I am enraptured.

Holding you like I want to absorb you through

my skin;

You holding me tight keeps me warm from the night.

You calm the fear, awaken the spirit, without even realising

the electric charge you make in me.

I don’t need to feel insecure with you.

I don’t need to be my worst enemy, punishing myself

from dank corners.

I don’t need to remind myself of icy touches, meaningless frenzies,


to feel vulnerable in the dark.

I don’t need to feel hunted, I know I don’t deserve to be dangerously


I don’t need to wait for the sharp strokes of daggers against my skin the


we consume each other.

I know I’m safe to wait; I know it’s perfect as it is, building up for more.

You envelope me like a warm dream,

cozy, perfect, vivid, deep;

I can feel your pulse, a soft hum,

playing beneath me.

It quickens as we fall deeper into each other’s arm,

a tighter wrap, a closer kiss than before.

Is it possible to feel so calm with someone?

Is it real for me to see stars and tepid colours, the streets and lights of

the city anew, knowing I can kiss your cheek and

slip my fingers through yours, holding tight.

Bundled in your gaze,

I know I’m doing everything as I was meant to.

Kiss and play,

run and sweep,

into each other;

heart and hands,

eyes and roaming lips, soaking in each others’ terrain.

We draw deeper into each other,

Why do I feel so safe?

Don’t make me let you go, don’t make me embrace my soul;

cold chips, broken shards;

blackened and scorched as the wasted plains of my heart.

Please fill me.

Whatever you do, don’t let me go.

— The End —