Blank but not quite blanc,
Taunting me with possible ideas
Of what to etch and curve and carve
Into plaster and paint.

Torn scraps curled up into *****
Of perfect things
That are flawed
When put together.

I want to look right
To view it when I wake,
Like it the first time
I saw Munch.

I want to look right
Without a need to change and alter and edit
The leaf out of place
Or the cigarette in Oscar's hand.

I want it to look right,
Stand with hands on hips,
And proudly leave marks on my clothes
From palms blackened with acrylic.

Unmoving from the same spot
I've been in for months,
The thoughts in my head
Deliver insomnia
More active than any caffeine
Derived from berries.

Thoughts of you, thoughts of her.
Thoughts of him, thoughts of them.
Thoughts of what, thoughts of who.
Thoughts of where, thoughts of when.

Tangle around me
And prevent exhalation.
Everything but thoughts of me
And what I need, as it's not important or relevant.

I'm stumbling on,
Worry the only part of me that thrives
On being deprived.
And my solution to them
Gets more irrational and frantic
With each hour lost.

We stand on wooden floors, once were new and glossy
Now scuffed and varnished with spirits
After you danced when I pretended not to see you first
Beneath the sculpture which in my head is ours.

I've never seen someone smile so much
At a ball of stuffing and chain
That now hangs faithfully from your jeans.
Like a polyester medal.

Outside to nicotine fog
Where you describe your dream
And I can't quite find words.
So I interrupt you instead,
I launch my arms out over the Irish sea
And around you.


You stopped talking instantly.

I burnt my hand on the laminator.
You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins,
Drinkable leather,
Even though I couldn't smell them
Over the tobacco from your clothes
That slowly seeps into mine.

I'd come outside with you for a cigarette
A compliment,  maybe not to my lungs,
But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus
Take one more hit so I can laugh with you
About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table.

I have to keep up
Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit.
More so than those blunt scissors
Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink,
Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described,
Goes well with fish.

I can't imagine you crying,
Though I'm sure you did.
Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk,
Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping.

Your walk, a sound only comparable to
A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed,
A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step,
All femur.

Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry.
Only there would you let yourself search,
Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters,
For a scrunched up tissue.

She mentioned in passing,
That if anything was to happen,
They asked if I could be yours.
To shout at to tidy my room,
Clean the dishes,
Or tell me to **** off when my heart was broken.

You think your greatest gestures were the presents, tickets, trips, autographs,
The army of "Please look after this bear" Paddingtons,
But you're wrong.
It was the two sentence emails,
Telling me cocktails could take the edge off chemo.
It was teaching me how to swear.
It was the cough and mumbled 'Luvyuutu" over the phone, reluctant but not regretful.

That call she made probably ended,
With a pause, a gulp, a tremor in your voice.
It would be you who'd shorten such an important answer.
A "Yep".
A clack of the phone on the desk.

And a "Luvyuutu, Ferg." after you hung up.

Tumbler in hand,
Without a stem,
Wine slowly warmed in your palm
The carboxyl-laden liquid gold

Daily medicine,
You prescribe yourself
And send your loving wife to pick up
From a clanking pharmacy

Returns
In lilac paper
A present you unwrap
For yourself.

A beauty,
More so than her
Or the daughter you both raised
You cradled your glass instead of her,
Sick, balding, bloated.

In the bathroom
Crying against the locked door
As you shout
To control, stop now
Her unregulated rate of mitosis
That was done in spite against you.
It’s her fault
That you cant fix it.

Unlike a mitral,
You cannot sow, stitch, or glue her in place,
She won’t stay where you put her,
But like this valve -
A pig.

She remembers nights you don’t,
Her memories your hangover
That you’ve grown resistant to
Like a bacteria.
The MRSA of our family,
Washing our hands of you,
Sterilised with alcohol.

We sleep with the duvet above our heads.
Alveoli struggling, but heart thriving,
Steadily inhaling your exhalation to the rhythm of your lungs.
Scents of what were coffee, cigarettes and beer
Are just metabolites; caffeine, nicotine and aldehydes now
But the one thing I cannot break down,
Is how you can lay so close to me
And I can still miss you.
Harder than when I was miles away.
So many words exchanged that could be explained with one touch.

When I hold you closer it’s more in hope
Of waking you than for comfort.
True, a cruder move than when you
Whispered to me and kissed my neck.
You’ll never know how happy I was to feign sleep for just a few more moments.

But its eyelashes not your iris-less eyes I see
Just eyelids separate you from me.
Funny how a thin layer of epidermal cells,
Can make me feel further away from you
Than the plane, bus and train it takes me to get here.

We sleep with the duvet above our heads,
Alveoli struggling, but heart thriving,
steadily inhaling your exhalation to the rhythm of your lungs.
Only CO2 left to share now
Means your oxygen deprived cells force you to
Slip further away from me, unconscious,
Of how much I miss you.