The failed kiss left a trail of lip gloss
across a canvas of unending emptiness

like a memory dragged from between the
pages of a second-rate novel.

Her cries were a tune that knocked at the door
but failed to pierce his tone-deafness.

He watched on but then sensed guilt
that he alone could have caused such a thing.

You call it impartiality,

but is it the calculated coldness inside you
that creates that sense of misplaced fairness
which means you treat everyone in the same
negative way regardless of their circumstances?

I call it duplicity.

In the skip
lies a rusty bike in faded red
a carpet stained and a broken bed
- in the skip
some rotten wood from a leaking roof
all of which is evident proof
of the transience of things

No moon in a milk-flavoured sky
just a feather suspended in a summer current
leaving just enough room for breathless uncertainty.

A long-play memory in a looped feedback.

Waves arrive in an endless repetition  
from an ocean full of oversized drops
as eyes open to see nothing but shades of blue.

It’s a sonnet of suffering
inside my head.

You replaced the boredom
of an everyday melody,

broadcast a daily bulletin
of disparate emotions.

Then the cacophony of chaos
played out a performance.

Now the symptoms of you
mean misfortune for me.

I know there’s a blame to be had somewhere,
but you shouldn’t shout at me because they all died.

You shouldn’t have asked me to care for your houseplants.

You know I’m no good with instructions.

At least be grateful
you didn’t ask me to look after your ageing mother.

The day you left
garbage rotted,
eggshells cracked,
water polluted.

The day you came back
I saw a rainbow