And all’s right with the world.

There are a lot of things you can never say

There are a lot of things you can never do

But for this one instance

Within this single moment

You can be infinite

And I can be the distance;

I can be the math that quantifies you

I can be the heart that qualifies you

As you yawn into forever –

I will tiptoe, I will reach, and I will stretch as far as I can

To be perfectly aligned

And our colours will be unbearable

Before you

 

 

I cannot be you. But you cannot say that I’ve never tried.

Same Old Year

Quieter this time, I almost miss you

Precocious and precious, you are a temperate whisper

Born of the in between, within the breath after each word

Or the pause of translation, you are in spoken cadence

Closer this time,

You are a stray sigh,

a second glance’s expectation,

or the burning in my eyes

Until you are taken by time,

to the depths of a decade

Truer this time, you are missed.

Why can’t I learn?

Your ineffable wit, your apparent disenchantment

Stoic eyes, ponderous brows. You hide it well

that intrinsic divide, behind your smile

the chasm within your judgement

Your unfaltering faith, your resolute loyalty

Turntable lips, callous lies. You’re so devious

in your own foolish testament, you blatantly forgot to mention,

How absolutely redundant you have become.

Please shut the door behind you, and leave the keys in the mailbox.

Tomorrow we’ll do it again.

What it is to be the remainder.

Swimming in the pools of light below each street lamp, it is the enduring chill of the night that never leaves my bones. Feverishly pulsing behind closed eyes and buzzing between covered ears, it is an overriding silence. Languishing upon collapsed resolutions and fettered wisdom, it is the weight upon an exhausted heart.

I am redolent of you and your wild raptures, and I want to carry you with me till the end of time.

But, a thousand excuses are conjured, as begging and pleading yield no return (regardless of earnest), and when I can afford no company (not even of your ghost). At once I find myself falling into the pools of light below each street lamp, into the rust of realisations long recognised but never executed.

Oh, what it is to be the remainder.

But, I’m afraid there are butterflies, where my courage should be.

We got what anybody else got, we had a lifetime.

At the edge of winter, lapsing between progress and self destruction. A beehive inhabits my mind, buzzing through the darkest nights with wordless prose. Evading meaning and reason, in a language I have no faculty to translate (Believe me, I have tried). To which end I remain rooted with my head hanging off my bed, staring straight into your wildly seductive offences. You afford no trace and explore no destination, ornamentally suspended and tangled. I construct questions and approximate their answers, for I believe I can never manage your responses (with your characteristic disenchantment).

Imaginary lines are drawn

With no form, and no destination

In the darkest of nights

With your hands over my eyes

our promises tangled and tied

I was your anchor, and you were my dream

So long, and good night.