dusk in rain

Apollo once plucked at his veins;

echoed through all of his lines.

The umber of the sun refracted tenfold within his retinas;

syphoned outward back towards the sky.

Like the finest of rain could do no harm,

the loudest of flames would never scar.

A modern day hallelujah laced his breath.

A map of europe etched across his spine,

whispered ideas of where to wake tomorrow.

Like the sharpest of sunsets would sing

to respect the tones in his serenade.

Mountain ranges sit beneath his eyes;

canyons to carry the currents of smiles.

The simiri of a laugh. The glow of a story.

Adonis had once charmed his blood, his spirit.

Like he would succumb to no greater pleasures

than those found in nothing.

Like every breath, every sigh,

were crafted to perfectly align with his own time.

And when he rests,

angels sleep between his lips,

honey drips into his kiss,

and there is no place more divine to lie

than parcelled between his limbs.

The famous lovers of dante’s creation wistfully await his arrival,

a celebration unrivaled for a celebrity such as he.

And though he will be missed,

there are much grander places for him to exist.

You allow yourself to become pensive in his absence;

Nothing could triumph the peace he brings in pure blank forms.

 

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stalagmite

Snipers at the windows,

not his eyes but a tsunami of sulphur sneaking through skin.

Slipped into the spit of his kiss.

Taste the sting, snap nettles in your palms just to see it.

Shoulder to shoulder, her skin is silk.

Someone told me to step back and to wait.

Some sympathiser sits on the street

slitting vowels and shredding sounds,

a symphony or a cacophony;

something she can’t understand.

Spitting cherry seeds down the slates below.

His silhouette but times ten, and again and again,

stagnant and sneering. Sipping cold blood.

A slug sucks the substance clean and leeches somewhere new.

Love slithers like the silver of a sweetheart slip,

shimmying until six in the morning

sedated with sick, settled in filth.

There’s my heartbreak.

Sugar stains; his spit on her sheets.

Simple sheath of silent skin bruised so easily,

she cried so loudly. A scream or a saxophone,

something steals her nerve; she screeches to a halt.

Sharp pools of shallow breath, not enough to drown in.

He sneers. Ice between teeth. Slime on the tongue

lapping up her sweat,

Snail slobber secreted on her neck.

A suspended psyche in a disordered aisle swings from the ceiling.

Wait to be told to swallow it hole. Her limbs in a knot,

scathed skin surfacing on the seam of your inside,

scratched deep and simpering

whimpering she slept.

 

pencil shavings

I’d say that love is like pencil shavings.

No, I’d say that death is like pencil shavings.

Or, is it like a paperclip?

Which one? Love or death?

I could say that love is like pencil shavings,

but I won’t because it isn’t.

I say that love is like pencil shavings,

but I don’t because it isn’t,

it’s more like an owl at 2pm,

which is like love, because it’s in love,

with something or someone.

It’s like knowing that one day, I’ll be walking down this street

and see you walking beside me.

It’s like knowing that today, as I walk down that street I won’t,

see you beside me, anywhere near me, not today.

Because love is like pencil shavings, death is like a paperclip,

and you’re like God to her.

It’s like love if love wasn’t pencil shavings,

which it isn’t.

So, it is.

something that Shakespeare would’ve said better

Im crying my eyes out over you all the time, dear.

Smiling at screens in public scenes;

   the miles stretch further every time we speak.

 

It’s a slap in the face, my love.

When your song passes through my ears,

    and I’m ready to leave the Earth I’m standing on

          at 5 am.

Surrounded by suits who look nothing like you.

 

My heart drops like a stone, darling.

When I see the back of your head in a crowd,

     and a stranger turns around.

 

I won’t say I love you.

I’m in too deep;

    afraid to drown,

        and honey, you’re pulling me down.

 

I’m just waiting for this bed to feel a little smaller,

   but everyday the wait feels so much longer.

So, I fill the days with strangers and with stranger thoughts

     of a world the way I used to know it,

           without you.

A world where nothing seems to fit.

 

Nothing feels right without you near, poppet.

Shakespeare probably said it best,

     though I don’t know what he said.

I just want you closer.

 

Nobody’s life has a purpose.

But, I reckon we’ve found meaning in waiting for each other.

So hurry the fuck up,  Joshua.

 

“nobody in particular”

Started smoking again.

Because the fumes remind me of  you,

  and that smell in my hair

      is the same one that tickles your breath,

          as we lie

               woven into bed sheets.

 

Started using again.

Because the taste of dust is the same as the taste of you.

The one that reminds me of the things that you do.

I bite my own lip  

   to feel less alone.

 

Started drinking again.

Because when my brain overheats,

    the burn in my throat replaces the one in my head,

And I can carry on.

Painting pictures, etching memories

      of the last time we shared a shower,

             and we both could breathe.

please leave

I find that there are few greater pleasures in life

than a hot coffee and a cigarette, smoked out of a window.

With pixies on vinyl,

You watch the smoke sail away

and follow the sky, a subtle grey.

With breaks of a hue, bright blue

and no one to ask about your day.

I find that there is nothing more pretentious than these thoughts.

My socks are vintage, did you know?

50 pages left

My heart feels heavy,

 like I don’t know how long I can live like this for.

There’s a poison in my ears in the form of wish you were here.

An empty chair across the table,

  and an empty half of the bed.

My portrait pillow, trapped by my leg,

  misses its painted face,

I dream of looking up and seeing your chest,

    empty and calling for my resting head.

And I don’t want to do anything.

No, everything is too exhausting.

When I’m moving with a heart twice the size,

   and your words bouncing behind my tired eyes.

“Honey, you bring  out the smiths in me.”