Enter: a shadow, the basement

of a person, painted solid by their ledger.

Hushing for silence

that doesn’t exist.

The audience sees it clearly under the bright stage lights,

but its owner is blind.

They feel so transparent, they’re not even sure they have a shadow anymore.

It sneaks up behind

and photographs them, panoramic view,

and leaves the print at their feet.

Evidence. Opaque as can be.


My Future

I bump into my past all the time.

Taking clothes out of the washing machine,

rinsing out the bath,

entering the bedroom on the right.

It greets me in the morning, and bids good night in the evening.

Standing there, chest bared

and open

as I once looked forward to.

But now all I can see is you.

Your shape, your silhouette,

your smile, your giggle.

Your kind face and sincere eyes,

your waterfall of hair.

Every so often, my past catches me by surprise

and I wonder if it’s going to keep me captive.

I know what might have been, and what was

only last year.

It’s not what I want now. Not where my heart has stayed.

My heart is only looking forward,

a future linked with yours.

Dungarees and messy hair,

lazy afternoons tinkering with puzzles,

mugs of tea and glasses of pink lemonade.

Gentle hugs, firmer holds.

Delicate kisses, and some more bold.

And all the laughter we can spare.



I think of my eyes as building blocks, little

lego bricks that connect in place to make

something bigger than themselves,

bigger than me. Sometimes

the colours don’t match, or a wall doesn’t take

on the shape it’s supposed to.

That’s when I know I’m tired. That’s when I know

I’m overwhelmed. That’s when I

know something’s wrong.

I need to rest, evaluate the pieces I have

and find a better way of constructing them.

Figure out that just because pieces don’t fit in one spot,

doesn’t mean they won’t fit in another.

Step by step. Brick by brick. Hour by hour.

And I’ll heal. I’ll breathe.

I’ll build once again.


Winter’s call

The cloak flaps about in the wind.¬†Wings of an untamed beast expressing their disconcert – tied to the long neck of a statue, for all it’s worth. Crisp, frozen grass blades crunch at the first steps of the morn. Another day. Another cloak of wings that can’t get away.