I like this pub.
Not too loud so you can't think.
Not too quiet so that you can't
help but think.

An old Cambridge pub called
the Portland Arms.
I've recently taken to drinking
whiskey straight, enjoying the burn.

The music is mediocre but
the people seem genuine enough.
Not that that matters anyway
when you're drinking alone.

I reminisce, the love;
That was never really my own

The memories of the one
With whom I never roamed

Her arms around my neck,
And the sweet smell of her cologne

Her voice of love that fuels
The desire to be nevermore alone

Her warm breath against my face
That defrosts my heart that’s frozen

That one gentle kiss
To cherish till the day I’ll be gone

Her remembrance in the most adverse of times
Which gives me hopes and feels safe as home

How is it that I miss these things;
The ones that I never have known?

my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams

I guess I gave up on touching my toes

Today my mother gave me yellow pillow sheets
and I freeze at the thought of falling asleep to your favourite colour.
I wonder if she knows my pillows are the only company I keep.
They are the ears for all the things I could never tell her.

They recognise the weight of your head,
the touch of your skin and subtle kisses.
They know when you’re not around and when I’m wide awake
and play the lullaby of your heartbeat and giggles.

I wonder if she knows that I still think of you till the Sun rises.
And if she’s saying “It’s okay if you find it hard to let go,
but here’s a list of all the different colours
you can paint over the ***** yellow.”

My walls are now of an endless storm.
They are the clouded memories that will keep me warm.
So no-
I don’t want to fall asleep to your favourite colour,
I don’t have to.
All the grey still makes me think of you.

By Arcassin Burnham

We may give each other silence,
Spending days without the one we want,
Such a tall beauty that I'd like to hold,
Instead I'm acting like a ****,
Mixing my situations with a love that only
Death could ever come between,
I'm missing everything you do,
With me and you and our virtue,
I can not hardly speak,
The days where we would laugh and you
Show me all your smarts and all you
Listen to,
I miss the days when it was normal just a
Simple talk with me and you,
You haunt me boo,
(Lol).

An old man sits in an even older rocking chair.
His skin was midnight, as was his hair once upon a time
When it had adorned his head
Within its very curl was a diamond, a ruby,
Like the crown of the richest king

But now the only thing that curled
Was his back
Hunched in that old chair
You couldn’t tell by looking at it
But it was once a strong body

Yes, the old man was young once
He was strong,
He was beautiful
He was proud
As he should be

But he was too strong
His exterior was that of ice and steel
Not the fieriest touch
Nor the most jagged of cries
Could penetrate

And he was too beautiful
His boisterous laugh, his perfect smile
Most found loud
Obtuse
And blinding

His greatest sin was his pride
He thought himself a mountain
Indomitable
But when the valley burned
All he could do was watch

The old man sits in the even older rocking chair
Weak, ugly, and disgraced
He once dared to think
God was proud to have made this body
He wondered what He thought of him now

his laugh is my favorite movie. I play the scenes over and over again in my head the way he smiles the way he looks at me  the way my hand fit into his. The million words that were said and his laugh that I lost. I lost the original so now I'm left with the movie playing in my head and knowing I will never have the feeling that I did when I got to watch it first hand. when I got to love him for the first time.