Good would have to exist in this world if I were to win. Some days I am an island wishing I would sink for my sins.
Every love has its landscape. Every landscape it's baron winter.
We sat by the river talking of saints and sinners, of wonders and mountains and you never touched my hand, did you?
But I -
Cannot please
Cannot charm
Or win
And the Thames is thick
The warm weather is holding
And all I ever wanted was to be good
Maybe if I run fast enough I can get back the time I lost

I sleep with my hair warm and wild like a sonnet.
When I wake, I am new again.
All the religions you know could not teach me this.
All the gods I don’t know are begging me to meet them.

I make myself small, I bend and contort.
Crawling into the crevices and corners of your cozy north London flat. I settle amongst the plants you care so deeply for, staying still until you call for me.
if you call for me.
I apologize, move slowly, softly and without intention. As the sun sets in the early evening, I reach out for you but -
I wriggle and squirm in your arms at night because there is no comfort there.  
I remember how we said no matter where we were, we would be looking at the same moon each night.
It is September, and I am a tender object living in your house.
I fight every urge my heart has to feel loved –
as if I wasn’t a heavenly body worth praising.