Ten thousand steps and counting

We can go years without connecting with anyone.

Passing comments with associates, laughing at their jokes,

offering background information.

Some say that is connecting.

But it’s not.

Not on a level where

all illusions dissipate,

body language relaxes and accents sneak back in

to chilled speech.

Not on a level where you know what the other is thinking,

gather a conversation of meaning

from one gesture

and laugh just from the slight twinkle

in each other’s eyes.

We can go years without that,

and then one day

stumble into the realisation that the right person

was there all along,

and together

you squeeze the friendship

of those years

into a month or two, and go on

as if it’s always been that way.

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Fancy words for little things

We can’t simply stand around

quoting the words of long-dead playwrights

whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples

under the weight of our hesitation.

I want to speak in my own tongues,

not someone else’s. How can their thoughts

be true to what I wish to convey?

Your muchness matches my muchness.

And I hope it will

forever.

Onwards to the rotting tiles

The chess piece is split down the middle,

parading as two – in a mirror you can see

it whole, moving puppet-stringed

across the board, never waiting for a second

to consider the effect having the image

of an extra player has on the other pawns.

One side is stained black, the other bleached,

but what of the grey space in between?

Sticky, sap-covered moss disguises it;

no-one can see that inside they are the same.