Stain

Colour stained images of you swirl rapidly
In my mind
Envisioned through desire
Not memory
To paint a life that was good
And measured
And calm
And sweet
A personally sampled
Hand-picked scenario
Of second-hand furniture and shiny new utensils
Of strong afternoon coffee
And time
Oh, a lot more time
To roam, to talk, to dream
Time to be careful, time to be slow
These images splashed onto me in fast, wet
Watercolours
While your own were drawn in pencil
Changeable, uncertain
For paint stains
And pencil fades
With my fear being
That I will always be stained by you.

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Lucky.

A scrunched piece of paper fell out of my bag
Yesterday evening
A resolution
It said
“Find a man who notices parts of yourself you didn’t know needed attention”
For in all those moments where your body felt abandoned
And your mind operated in swirls, not words
Where feelings only existed to hurt you
And the thrill only lasted as long as the wit held out
You never bothered to dream up a person who would kiss your hand
Bend and curl your fingers
Be in your corner and be kind to your mother
Who would happily browse aisles of books or aisles of washing detergent
Who would not question you when you craved pancakes for dinner
And had a crisis by dessert
Who would buy you both doughnuts because you couldn’t decide
A person whose depth of character didn’t make each day hard
But more fruitful
Whose eyes saw you
In every changing moment
And didn’t look away, but looked further
Who reminded you that you are more than a sharp tongue and a useable body
Yet he here stood, nearly dreamed up into existance
With you imploring him, childishly, to pinch you again
Again
Form a bruise
Provide evidence that you exist
That we exist

Glue

I wish on all that is holy
That I could be unwrapped
Like a present
But sliding fingers beneath my sticky tape
Will not do
For, it is glue
For which you must peel and scrape
Ever so gently
Ever so surely
Reveal layer, after layer, underneath layer, upon more layers
Pressed tightly, secured deeply
While your secrets bleed out quickly
Mine, they clot, fairly slowly
And as I bundle yours up, and cradle them gently
Your attempts to release me
Grow greatly uneasy

Fading, creating
Loss. Lost.

Feminine pattern

She possessed a changeable laugh

And insightful eyes

She watched them leave before they arrived

 

She was a fire smothered to dust

Metal starting to rust

A symphony of decay

A needle in the hay

 

An impulsive want

Hardly a continuous need

She only ever fought against her own creed

 

Her eyelids always being drawn shut

Just as they had flickered into focus

What was clear always turned murky

Her world losing its locus

Moment

Your feet dangled off the balcony ledge

Dirty soles, muddled soul

While la lune loomed

Lighting up your face to the truth of a perfect moment

A moment that embeds itself, nestling comfortably into the dusty storage box

In your mind

(For you to call upon in moments of harshness

In moments of sheer blackness)

To rekindle that one single moment

(A moment disintegrated and swallowed by space and time)

That existed because you existed

You, sweet hopeful creature, existed in that cold city that felt so warm

And like your feet were dangling

You were happy to dangle, like Charlotte on her spiders web

Above your childish fairy-tale faith

Holding onto the single idea that continuously falling off balcony’s

And catching yourself on the way down

Is the only choice you’ll ever make

 

From Memory

I grounded myself opposite a rain splattered window

On the left bank of Paris

And watched the river boats jostle idly by

Nothing could ever feel this good again

The people along the quai hustled quickly, the wind whipping them along

I watched their struggle against the elements and all I could do was grin

For the wind may be howling to high heavens and the rain may pelt downwards

And pierce my skin like needles through felt

But it wouldn’t disturb me

For I hadn’t felt this warm in eight months

As I was sixteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven kilometers

Away from where you were

And for a few moments in my mind

Planted in Paris

You may never have existed

Running

And then, on the footpath
My feet crashing to a halt
The terrible thought washed over me
Covering me head to toe in shocking blue
That perhaps life is merely a series of distractions
And those who do not run out of distractions
Are the happiest

And then I kept on running