Growing

It's the seed

Planted in the soil (spelt soul)

An endless rotation of limbs in the night and a never quiet mind.

Thinking

Because you can't imagine another

Because you can't let it go

But

You want to.

Maybe? 

You could go back there. Always.

But it's Christmas. 

Dear You

It's difficult to begin this letter, faced with the task of expressing my love for you by writing lines on trees- old trees. Just because its hard to say goodbye (even just with my fingers). Sitting alone on a bed meant for one- but perfect for two. My thoughts are on you (circling my brain like they're circling the drain- down into my throat to my hips and to my toes) and you're there with me holding me, breathing. When the exhaustion has taken its toll sometimes you're really there. For a blink. The scent of the black sweater I can't seem to sleep without. And it's confusing why I can never find the words- and these lines; illegible. Yet there is always a movement- a simple flex of the first knuckle on a finger tip and a twitch in the muscles of lips- meaning a thousand things- somehow that's so much more than the alphabet strung together by broken thoughts. I feel lost and lonely. When you leave I wait for you to come back. You're my reason for forgetting to breathe. Hopeful for clarity- where nothin else matters but the next time I can loose my legs between yours. Fantasies played to the accompaniment of sad songs and morning blur. An inevitable, undeniable- daunting and teasing- future. Before us. And happiness  is of utmost importance. It's hard to wait around for something that might never happen, but it's harder to give up when you know it's everything you want. To the left there are the flowers, slowly dying- like the impression of your body on mine. The towel's been washed and put away. If everything could stop. Oh darling if everything could stop and we could share breath. Or the breathless moment of clarity. You let your walls come down for me, so that we could waste afternoons holding hands sometimes we walk fast through leaves. And darling I'll do the same. So here it is love, a hopefully poetic explanation of why ( or how much) I hate goodbyes. 

Yours Truly.

Boire du thè

To get happy

Repeating it

To convince myself.

And I did.

But was I left- I mean right. 

And the leaves are really beautiful here.

Fall exists. 

Will it last 

Wallace 412

The desperation boils beneath the mattress
darkens at eight.
In the dense air, breathe.
That scent on the black sweater permanently glued.
Hazy
thoughts
in the early morning- wait.
A package arrives. On Sunday.

Seconds Too Late

What are the rainbows like when you are  not beneath them.

A thousand shimmering colors stretched out. 

Far as the eye could see.

And I couldn't see myself among them.

And you were right beside me.

Breathing in the pollin. 

Websites and Information

It settles in

Resting in the warm membrane

You knew it. 

Swallow it

A pill 

Swallow. 

The end. 

Am I

Holding on to hope

Gripping at the skin.

Slight feeling 

Pain.

Crossing toes for tomorrow

And visits. 

Brussels

The cracks
White lines between fingers, in pockets.
Finally here
Hurry.

Dublin

There it is.
Locked in.
Awake.

Still.

Hold on.
It gets better-
In Brussels.

Umbrellas and Sleeves

Explain it to me
Why I can't find the words
They float there. Transparent. Grab for them between the rains.
Season.
They dissolve.
They never existed.

Letters to you

Not quite formulated,
The words, dampening while waiting-
The tip of my tongue.
Ink rubbed off- fingerprints.
Eight letters (567)
Dripping
Drying
Draining-
The veins, what's left.
 

Deafening.

The disconnect.
Desolation.
Move on to your future-pack up your past.
In boxes.
The overlap-
Inevitably an ending- I can see it
Can You?
Short change, 2 cents.
There comes a knocking-
LEAP
NOW
or forever hold your peace.