Every Second seems like a day
Every hour like a week
As I pine for the jade sparkle in your eyes
Time moves like a treacled tortoise
As I wait & wait & wait
For the moment we touch we kiss we hold
Our breath & then
Exhale

Contact - Pews with no use, a forgotten passage treacled, serving the timbre of resonance
Fundamental mistake agreed upon - Taken in turns, compromise youth, stripes of black tape, holding in, holding down - With such emotion

A feeling, an instinct - Complex in nature, futile in structure - Sigil-like and abrupt - Bursting forth a cacophony of irreverence
Yet, buried vast leagues underneath, the reflex of upset digestion in a tank of split hairs
Full/Frugal

This is within the borders of communication - Feedback - Crossed between importance
Cornerstones moss covered, sinking to the bottom of refuse
Candy & gum flavoured coastal reefs - Hardening on the decay of brimstone and salt
My ego is capsuled, exerting pressure equally from all angles

A fishing hook, on a fishing rod - Cast into a culture of aplomb
Plum knives, bread, buried under volcanoes - Just far away enough, shielded by brass
Squashed inside my grandmother's tin - Old, rustic and wilting
Baking our ancestry into extinction - Corroding, and creating callous embassy

Just long enough, to settle our stomachs - I dance.

With mixed and barbed emotions
these thick and heavy days defy physics
individually grinding
yet weekly whipping by

But in this treacled maelstrom
Friday’s unique frisson
still brings a cheeky tickle

on the phone he asks me if I’ve been seeing anyone lately
in a parallel universe where pride does not taste of cough syrup
and we are still paper dolls
weightless and so hopeful and short of breath
I would have painted murals on the backs of his eyelids
as an explanation
I would have admitted that I’ve been seeing ghosts
rise up from the cracks in the floorboards
and they have warm hands
familiar only in a dependable absence of familiarity
that I take solace in
because we are both here and not
both incidentally veiled in the irony of transparency

                                 tell me all the things you couldn’t see then,
                                 and I will show you now,

I would have said,

                                 tell me how we continue to miss that which is      
                                 right in front of us
                                 - is it but for a lack of recognition?

treacled words spilling out of cupped palms
running down our wrists  

                                 do you also wonder why we slip
                                 through each other’s fingers?