Constellations of frozen glances
I so lovingly photographed and watched 
Fade through the icy glass of photo frames. 
A blazing pattern of fire
Streaking across the unblinking eyes on my wall.

Scorch marks, blackened over time.

I miss the heat from the stove, 
On the nights of adventures in deck chairs,
Watching, or not, movies in blankets of ourselves.
Seeing you receive slopping kisses from man’s best friend,
You were; you are mine. 



Wrapping myself in petals of familiarity,
Every morning they bloom into 
Grotesque images of people, places, objects,
Leafy sepals of sameness.

Empty empty vacuous flower bud.

Senseless clambering for water, 
For a moving constant, a flowing necessitation.
Nourish me with the lick of your honeyed tenderness.

Sick of monotony,
But wanting what once was.
C’est La Vie
Dizzying homesickness, 
Lacking in you.


You’re spewing vulgarity,
And I wish I could take your words and throw them at him.

Cunt, you’re up in smoke.
Burn holes in the sweater I’ve forgotten the smell of
And taint it with grassy forgetfulness.
Hazy, hazy child,
It’s like he runs a mile before realising it’s in a mirror.
Turn around, my love, before it’s too late,
Thread a trail of apologies behind you
And cling to the hope I’ll trip.

Know I’ll trip. Know I’ll never toss words at you,
I’ll cut you, but I’ll never salt your wounds,
And you’ll never learn.
I’m listening to her speak,
And I wish I could turn on you.
Violate you with how I’m feeling.
Cloying, sweet messages of vapid emotion.

Without you, I’m seeing bones.
A skeleton wrought with potential.


Clean your wounds with callused hands,
Dirtied fingertips, chipped nails.
Infect them with the best intentions.
I don’t know the slightest of you
But let me help you.

In you, out of you, with you, as you.
A failure to distinguish two halves,
But the splintered fragments are so obvious.
I cracked you, but you didn’t me.
I took a chisel to myself and peeled away the plaster.

Piece me back together,
Gloved palms and a sterile fragrance.
Hold me in the back of a streetcar,
Surrounded by the unromantic stale leather
And tell me we’re leaving.

Going, going, going:
Nowhere, everywhere, to your house, to mine.
Scale the cliffs of our relationship
And look at the view.
Pray it’s an eternal summer.

And it’s you who’s the idealist.
You paint a scene of blues and reds,
Starks contrasts, you paint white on white.
Bleach out the imperfections, give me
Pastel shades of muted glory.

Take me on a trip.
Fluxing into your mind and back out through your eyes.
Tether me to you hope because
I don’t have

it must be.

Lukewarm and silky, the water kissed my cheeks,

Brushed the sleep from my eyes, lifted the corners of my lips.


A step out, a frozen gasp, the bitter chills.

Old insecurity seeps out, new insecurity seeps in.


The water dries up, the pressure of heat 

Pressing onto my shoulders, I bend,


I break. Piece myself together, become the puzzle,

Fragmented but whole. Sweet dismemberment, tender deceit.


Crawl back – crawl back to the pool,

A toe first, then a leg. Submerged, the realization:


It was all in your mind, the heat a passing dalliance.

The water must be/it must be/it has to be.


I wear you on my wrist,

The stretched out elastic shells

as soothing as the gleaming silver.

On my ears, the crooked aquamarine a

Reminder I won’t straighten.

You nibble at my ears from miles away.

I wait for the bite, the bruise,

the lingering smell of you on me,

the scent of you and me.

Shrouded in intoxicating idealism,

A spiked environment of numbing hope.


eternal return

It matters not to anyone,

or anything at all.

As fleeting as a strobe light in a club,

and shining just as brightly.


I offered you a shoulder,

You responded with a word.

If everything were to happen again,

Would anything appear at all?


Perfectly in time, a

Crescendo, some blinking alarms

Too obvious to miss.

It may not have happened, but it did.


And it keeps happening, 

A new crescendo, a new return.

Infinite repetitions,