It was a smile
it was up-all-nights
It was inside jokes
It was pinky promises
It was never ending talks
About religion
About god
all that **** we're never allowed to give an opinion on
It was a three word sentence
It was hand holds in the cinema
It was kisses in the bathroom
Or any where with a lockable door
It was cheesy texts
And cheesier phone calls
Then it was goodbye
It was time difference
It was Skype
It was guyish needs
And girlish give-ins
It was more lust
less love
It was stupid arguments
It was picking fights
Just to feel something
Other than
numb
It was a hard decision
It was "for the best"?
It was unwanted mornings
It was sleepless nights
It was puffy eyes
It was no one will love me again
It was I still miss you
It was pain
Now it's fear
Of what was
All over again.

He was bent over
almost in half

bent over a pool table
concentrating on the next play
but there were no *****
on the table
just a body
dressed in gray sweatpants
a holey shirt, and only one shoe

The pool cue was chalked with blood
but his hands were steady

Crack

Splintering wood against bone
fractures symphonic ally
in tune with ancient jukebox greats
warbling the hurts
of somebody done someone wrong

but I don't want a piece of that...

that which has spread someone
who never meant anything to me
across the green of the pool table
trying to punt individual pieces of them
into six different holes

I'm shadowing myself in the corner
next to the jukebox
but his eyes find mine and I'm surprised

his are Blue
like an ocean
like a cloudless sky
like a sapphire under the sun
like a fire burning too hot
like deep frozen ice

His seriously kissable sensual lips
tip enticingly upwards
in my general direction
asking... imaging

He with you?

asking but not believing

you with him?

Mutely, I wither beneath the notice
and nod with a shake of my head

I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here

But here I am being scrutinized
from a different angle

In front of me
he's standing, tracking my gaze
to the non action at the pool table
now over, there is a new game in play
but he didn't ante in
as he found a new game

Me

and the stakes are high!

A finger runs lightly down my cheek
across my collarbone and down the V
of my deeply cut T shirt
skimming knuckles across the slopes
of barely there maturity
down the inside of my arm to my wrist
to the palm of my hand
twining into my numb fingers
raising them to press a open mouthed kiss
to my white knuckles

with a promise of
I know where you live

Out the door, alone, across the parking lot
and into the car I own
he's watching
waiting for me to turn my back on him
and he's got it
he'll find me

I realize as I close a door
that has little hope
and less lockable appeal
that he does indeed now know
where I live

*He won't forget

Living
In
Fear
Every day.
___________________­

Continually, my heart does stutter.
My head is full of all this painful clutter.
I wish that I could draw the blinds or pull down a lockable shutter.

I know that they are waiting, in the shadows. Waiting to pounce.
What they're not aware of is that my wish is their wish too.
The doctor may look at his watch, a time he will announce. My dream will become a reality and their wish will become true.

I have never been mad before
And I must say I'm finding it swell.
I've got a room with a lockable door
And the windows have bars on as well.
I have never been mad before,
And I must say I'm having a riot.
The voice in my head keeps me company
I was never a fan of the quiet.
I have never been mad before,
And I must say it's awfully nice,
I have a fabulous jacket with buckles
That wraps round my chest snug and twice.
I have never been mad before
Go on! Give it a go!
Living your life sane with a functioning brain,
Is awfully boring you know.

NOTHING BUT CARDBOARD

I would like to keep my stuff in a chest
One that was steel-banded oaken wood
Rigid and lockable, with a big iron key
But it’s a regular cardboard box for me
And I’d even use a metal safe if I could
But appearing as modest might be best

It never was planned to survive for years
And true that damp could shorten its life
On one side I do already see slight stains
But is dry enough inside for all it contains
The old memories of both joy and strife
Yet hard copies are still valued, it appears

All the ***** on top don’t meet anymore
A bit like the people in the photos there
Those I loved, back in my younger days
Moved on is now the much-used phrase
But each when dug out, is worth a stare
There’ll be some I’ve forgotten I’m sure

This cardboard box will not last too long
Now torn and creased, somewhat like me
But clearing the attic, cardboard will burn
To others, such memories of no concern
Viewed as trash, as far as anyone may see
If we cremate bodies, why is that wrong

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