Our love is like an echo at the end of a hollowed-out tree trunk;
Catch me if you can or not at all.
However much you told me
that this was home,
the feeling of being grafted
leaves an impression
on the skin.
The story could never find a final sentence,
The poems are half-written
The words are never given.
I wonder if you understand how
Odd it is to stay up,
writing about people who actually live their lives
Whilst we are still avoiding ours.

Our love is like a car that has veered off the winding road,
and crashed, headfirst into a
Sleepless river.
It refuses to let us leave
because it fills us with warm water,
and hope of salvation,
with smiles and girls nights in,
with beers and old
fond memories of us in class,
And I wonder if the river ever thinks
About the relic’s it hides below it?
The people drowning.
The buried treasure and pure gold
Waiting to be drained and used
Like a doll to a child to a check to a businessman.

Our love is like a bottle of wine left unopened.
The sweet turns to sour-
The bubbles turn flat,
The cork is soggy and the red is a mess.
Sometimes I wonder if you even see this
House anymore?
How the pillows droop
And the flowers are dead
And the candles have melted
On the wooden tabletop in dread?
Tears stain the skirting boards like
blood splatter on the floor.
I just don't think I can do
us
Anymore.