if roots can wait,
beneath the earth,
for a rain they cannot live without.

and if the stars wait,
lingering in dusk,
just to see the moon once more.

then i,
full of burning ache,
can wait too.

I will wait for you.

You smiled
like I was worth the wait-
or the lie.
Couldn’t tell.
You left the kitchen light on too long.
I stepped inside.
The floor gave way.

I slept beside you
as a thief
-quiet,
not for comfort-
but for the hush
that comes
when no one asks
what you’ve done.

Your shoulder
held the part of me
that still wanted
to be forgiven.
I kissed you
like confession
with no priest,
no promise,
just heat and teeth.

You didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask what made me
this way.
Didn’t try
to fix it.

I’ve burned names
like receipts.
I’ve swallowed shame
like spit.
Walked out
of too many mornings
with hands that still remember
who they touched
and didn’t deserve.

But you-
you just set a cup beside the bed.
No questions.
No sermon.
Just water.
Just presence.
Just mercy,
without the bow.
I drank the quiet.
It didn’t heal me,
but it stayed.

And when you sang-
not loud,
just soft enough to hold the air.
you said my name
like it was still mine.
Like it wasn’t
something I’d dropped
on purpose.
Like it could
come back.

Man craves reassurance,
I am nothing different to that.
We assemble groups of people to agree with us,
That the light doesn't just go out.
As if life were a dying lightbulb,
On an old lamp.
The kind that sits on my grandparents coffee table,
My family doesn't worship a symbol or God,
Will the light go out on them?
I believe in the man named God,
But we do not often talk,
My prayers are crude and unrefined.
Is that enough,
To keep the light on,
For a little long?
I fear not,
We will weep,
Becoming brittle.
People mourning shatter into shards,
For them, death is too far,
For them,
Death is the final friend.

Oh happy Sunday hour
after five and before the tea-time tide
when those who filled the beach
with grubby toddlers, toys and spades
return to roasting hotbox cars
and stow the cool-bag in the boot,
along with salty dogs who want to sleep
creeping under blankets kept especially for them,
farewell they wave,
with lollypop sticky, sun-touched infant hands
a tired last goodbye to the sand
that battlefield land of dug-outs holes and hollows
a ruined castle landscape
that the sea will fix tomorrow