Poetry

Fight Against

Folded neatly,

crinkle free,

you fill the box up generously

with spare clothing for your next adventure

here, knowing I’ll

keep it daisy-fresh, water pure.

We may part this night,

yes, it wounds me inside,

but we won’t let it become a tide.

I know, despite all that’s uncertain

that the fates have yet

to pull down this curtain.

We’ll be Atlas and hold up the sky

together, you and me,

our bond a permanent tie.

 

 

Poetry

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?

Poetry

Trickster Timing

It’s a strange thing, time.

Hours can feel like days

when you have something to look forward to,

someone to go home to,

to hold, to cherish.

 

When you’re with them, days

pass like minutes,

heartbeats of a hummingbird,

rolling the week along

so that once more you have to part.

 

Time, that careful trickster,

changes again,

making every second drag,

as if taking extra delight in the stab wounds

separation

causes you.

Poetry

Plucking electric wire

Eyes flick side to side, ticking their way through the hours.

Cheeks aglow

facing another way,

taste buds tasting buds sickeningly sweet.

Toughening the scales: use them to shield a heart.

 

Following up the path, a memory’s ghost.

A waste bin of paper, each sheet

etched with all that you are

and a hundred ‘might have been’s’.