Cosy Armchair

You say my laughter is infectious, but I say

yours is too.

And when that childish excitement fills your eyes

when you’ve spotted something

from your treasure chest of interests,

my heart is filled with your delight.

And I know,

I know

you’re the one.

Alike in our passion, we express ourselves

plainly to each other,

and subtly to everyone else.

We have no embarrassment,

we simply are.

There’s no denying it,

we can’t avoid being us.

Happiness is just a crinkle of the eyes away at all times.

Liquid Clay

You hand fits in mine so perfectly,

I wonder if they were cast from the same mould.

I can feel all of you

in even the slightest touch.

I know our thoughts of the future,

and I bathe in them every day, thinking

one day,

one day.

 

The leaves are browning; coppers, bronze, golds.

You are silver. A river of it,

a mirror

that I can swim in to the house we’ll have,

with a library,

a dojo,

a room of puzzles only we can solve.

 

Forwards or backwards,

past or future.

Not forgetting the sweet moments of present.

 

 

To you. The one in my head, always.

Who I’ve conversed with

in one way or another

since the day our platonic love,

our friendship,

our wall-breaking

started.

 

Now, we are a couple.

Yes.

We. Are. A. Couple.

We had no barriers before.

We have no locks now.

 

I literally gave you a key,

because the idea of you coming to me

and finding the door

shut

is disturbing and painful

for us both.

 

You once asked me

how I would feel if we didn’t talk for a day.

I answered that I tried it,

and you sent me a message

just as I broke and began composing my own.

 

I just don’t think we can do it.

I don’t want to do it.

Your words, your voice…

they’re oxygen.

 

And I’m still wearing your hoodie.

 

Testing. Testing.

It may be nothing.

A whisper.

A shadow.

A breeze.

 

It may be a nameless,

shapeless mass

that is only the ghost of a ghost,

an unwelcome spectre, but a harmless one.

 

It may be. It may be.

Black Cobwebs

You’re hurting.

I can see it as plain

as if you were holding up a sign to the world

letting them know

that being trodden on

and lied to – however well-intentioned – is not okay.

Except everyone, regardless of vision,

is blind to it.

It takes until the tears roll down

for them to understand

you can’t

keep trudging away everyday,

that care-free positive smile –

weighing several tonnes –

hiding your real thoughts.

Pretending, pretending, pretending

everything is fine.

No rest. No sleep. No insights.

It’s wounding you.

Slathering you in red;

not blood.

Anger. Pain. Sorrow.

And love.

Because you love,

because you claimed a degree of happiness

that gives the illusion you have distanced

yourself from the circle

and don’t want to be distracted,

there’s guilt.

Needless guilt.

Your choice was never to be left in the dark.

But I have shared the same

and understand why it’s there.

I hate it.

I hate how it wraps you in dark threads and cocoons you.

The only thing I can do

is hold your hand, drink your words

and let you lean on me.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Rushing Rivers

Dawn. We kiss, say our

good mornings.

You, the boy who is my best friend,

listen carefully to the account of my dreams.

Sometimes,

night terrors.

You know where parts come from, just as I do.

You know me,

inside and out, like

the motions you use cutting and shuffling cards,

except without the years of practice

yet at the same time

a lifetime of listening and observing.

We get ready for work,

the day ahead planned and uncertain.

We are a tag team, a cassette tape and pencil.

Together, nothing can keep us down.

My forehead is covered in stars

And they cover my eyes sometimes

so all I can see is the brightness they give off,

twinkling like polished, princess cut gems

only seen on T.V.

Before, my forehead

was perpetually covered in rain clouds,

black fluff that wouldn’t budge

no matter how many times I scrubbed my face raw.

Then I became friends with someone whose hair was covered

in gleeful fire demons,

his grin as swamping as theirs

but overjoyed, not menacing.

We talked. We rambled. We talked. We rambled.

And the fire demons latched onto my own hair

as finally we kissed,

running across my brow

to settle in their original forms,

usually only seen in the night sky.

Share this:

There was a young dragon called Brent

Who gave off the most frightening scent

Everyday at dawn,

He’d give a great yawn,

Making everyone flee with intent.

Drained

Each time a part of me is taken,

I fall under the waves,

crashing against the shore just as they do.

I know this part will soon be replaced.

Replenished

after nourishment and rest.

 

Though the hours pass, the ache remains,

and I can’t shake the disembodied sensation it gives me.

But there is no logic to this.

These tiny red specs I will not miss

contain not me, only my code.

So why do I wilt over a few cut leaves?

Eye Candy

An enormous platter arrives,

stacked on top of a toppling pillar

threatening to bury you,

but the prize is so great

it is the only thing you can see.

 

A remark can be harmless.

A remark can hurt.

 

When information is gleaned

and used for amusement,

gossip, whisper, giggle, snort:

the pillar will crumble completely.

 

And there will be no-one left

to recover you from the rubble.