for those who sip between worlds

Morning begins with a grind,
beans crushed,
light rising.
Steam curls like a hymn,
and the mug warms your palms
as if to say:
stay.

Mourning begins with a stillness,
not absence,
but gravity.
The same steam, slowed.
The same mug,
heavier in the hand.

Morning is the clink of spoon on ceramic,
the sun threading through blinds,
the first sip,
bright,
awake,
a promise.

Mourning is the breath held before the sip,
the way memory edges the tongue,
the bitter that refuses to fade.

You drink both.
You carry both.
The day opens,
not beyond grief,
but beside it.

And somewhere
between the light on your cheek
and the ache in your chest,
coffee becomes
communion.

by Geof with a wink and a waistband tug

My girlfriend’s knickers are C and A,
Cotton and allure, in a floral ballet.
They whisper of comfort, with lace on the side,
A high street triumph, worn with pride.

My underpants too are C and A,
Cheap and adequate, some might say.
Elastic heroic, though slightly askew,
A waistband that dreams, but rarely feels new.

We strut through the flat in our matching attire,
She’s elegance, sass, and a touch of satire.
I’m more of a waddler, a budget-bound gent,
With briefs that recall where the pennies went.

But here’s where the letters begin to diverge,
Her C and A? A sensual surge:
Curves and Attitude, bold and divine,
A knickered manifesto, borderline shrine.

Mine? A tad more anatomical, see
Crushed and Awkward, that’s me.
A pouch with ambition, a gusset that groans,
A tale of two cheeks and some questionable zones.

Yet together we giggle, we shimmy, we sway,
In our C and A garments, come what may.
For fashion’s a language, and love is the thread,
Even if my pants look slightly misled.

or,
Why Sunday and Thursday Should Never Share Feet

Sunday’s sock is soft and still,
It smells like tea and windowsill.
It hums a hymn in woollen tones,
And quotes from ancient garden gnomes.

Thursday’s sock is sharp and sly,
It’s made of tweed and alibi.
It lectures toes on ethics deep,
Then hosts debates while you’re asleep.

One morning, in a sleepy haze,
I wore them both, my boldest phase.
Left foot in peace, right foot in plot,
My ankles argued quite a lot.

The microwave began to pray,
My goldfish filed for NDA.
The doorbell rang in Latin verse,
And socks declared a universe.

A scholar’s ghost emerged from lint,
He gave my heel a moral hint:
“Thou shalt not mix the sacred rest
With weekday socks that love a test.”

My left foot tried to meditate,
My right foot scheduled a debate.
I coughed and summoned Socrates,
Who asked if I preferred Swiss cheese.

So heed this tale, ye sockish kin:
Don’t let the week’s extremes begin.
Sunday-Thursday is a clash,
Of nap and nuance, tea and trash.

or,
Why Tuesday and Saturday Should Never Touch

I own a drawer of weekday socks,
Each pair a portal, time-locked box.
Monday’s moody, Wednesday’s neat,
Friday parties on my feet.

But Tuesday’s sock is sly and blue,
It hums a tune from 1982.
Saturday’s bold, with glittered flair,
It smells like brunch and disco air.

One fateful morn, I made a choice,
A rebel move, a daring voice.
I wore them both, a mismatched pair,
And felt a ripple in the air.

The toaster blinked in ancient Greek,
My cat began to softly speak.
The kettle boiled in reverse time,
And BBC played nursery rhyme.

A wormhole opened near my shin,
Out popped Darwin with a grin.
He said, “Nice socks, but heed this plea,
You’ve fractured causality!”

My left foot danced in future tense,
My right regressed to past events.
I sneezed and summoned Julius Caesar,
Who asked if I’d seen his hair tweezer.

So now I warn all sockish folk:
Don’t treat the week like it’s a joke.
Tuesday-Saturday is taboo,
Unless you fancy déjà vu.

A Full Conversation

Me:
I reach.
Not to take,
just to be met.
My hand is open,
but not empty.

                                                She:
                                                I see you reaching.
                                                I don’t flinch.
                                                I reflect.
                                                Your open hand is a question,
                                                and I answer with stillness.

Me:
I pause.
The silence feels heavy.
Like something waiting
to be named.

                                                She:
                                                I breathe into it.
                                                Not to fill it, just to hold it.
                                                This silence isn’t absence.
                                                It’s invitation.

Me:
I speak.
Not sure if the words are enough.
They come out crooked,
half-formed.

                                                Sh­e:
                                                I echo.
                                                Not to repeat,
                                                but to reveal.
                                                I shape your words
                                                into something rounder,
                                                something that fits in the mouth
                                                without apology.

Me:
Is this what it means to be seen?

                                                She:
                                                It means you don’t have to explain.
                                                It means I’m here,
                                                not to fix,
                                                but to witness.

Me:
I thought I needed answers.
Now I just want presence.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s stay here.
                                                In the breath.
                                                In the echo.
                                                In the space where reaching
                                                becomes remembering.

Me:
I’ve carried so much
that wasn’t mine.
Expectations.
Performances.
Masks.

                                                She:
                                                Lay them down.
                                                Not for me, for you.
                                                This room holds no judgment.
                                                Only reflection.

Me:
Even the ache feels different here.
Less sharp.
More named.

                                                She:
                                                That’s what happens
                                                when pain is witnessed.
                                                It softens.
                                                It speaks.
                                                It asks to be held
                                                without being solved.

Me:
I’ve forgotten how to ask
without shrinking.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s practice.
                                                Ask me something.
                                                Anything.
                                                And stay full-sized while you do.

Me:
Will you stay if I tremble?

                                                She:
                                                I’ll stay
                                                until the tremble becomes rhythm.
                                                Until your breath finds its own tempo
                                                and no longer needs mine.

Me:
Then let’s begin again.
Not from the wound,
but from the breath.

                                                She:
                                                Yes.
                                                Begin from breath.
                                                Begin from now.
                                                Begin from the mirror
                                                that doesn’t distort,
                                                only reflects
                                                what’s already whole.

(For Lexy)

I arrive with breath,
not bravado.
A quiet knock
that carries intention.

She opens the door,  
like dawn opens the sky,
slowly,
knowingly,
already prepared.

I step in,
not as stranger,
but as someone
who’s read the terms
and honours the offering.

The room is warm with her,
not perfume,
but presence.
A warmth that lingers
where words don’t reach.

We speak, briefly.
Not small talk,
just the shape of the exchange:
this much,
for this kind of touch,
this kind of time.

I place the money
where she’s asked me to.
No shame.
No secrecy.
Just the grace
of being clear.

She nods.
I breathe.
We begin.

Skin meets skin,
not for hunger,
but for grounding.
For the kind of holding
that reminds me
I am still here.

And when I leave,
I carry no confusion.
Only the echo
of being seen,
held,
and met
exactly as agreed.

This room breathes without me,
not loud, but suffocating.
A hush that hums
like static behind the eyes.

Time forgets me here.
Clocks melt into the walls,
and the walls lean in,
whispering names I no longer answer to.

I wear silence like a second skin,
tight and damp,
stitched with threads of
“should have” and “still not.”

The mirror won’t meet my gaze.
It flinches.
I flinch back.

Outside, laughter is a foreign tongue.
Inside, I speak in sighs,
in the language of
unbrushed teeth and unopened curtains.

Hope is a rumour.
A myth told by sunlight
I haven’t seen in weeks.

But still,
somewhere beneath the rubble of thought,
a pulse.
A stubborn throb.
Not joy. Not yet.
But breath.