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. 



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


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.



A minute or a month ago,

Your life was packed into a box,

But before you left, you left behind

Me; painted blue.

The colour never faded,

It ripened, like a blueberry

Who should have been plucked,

But was forgotten.

As hours fell from the bush,

Instead of turning black, it was like

You had coloured me green, making me

Bitter, the taste that

Puckers your lips and wounds your tongue.

I wounded my own tongue, I

Used it to slice you, used it to watch just how far

I could push you,

I used it to see if you would spit me out.

But you never did.

And there were days of such

Vibrance, such yellows and oranges,

Oranges that deepened to red.

But that red always darkened, into the maroon

That was the colour of the blood

That I caused you to spill.

And now, I am blue again,

Yet I am not so dark. It’s a less

Painful blue; a resigned shade of acknowledgment.