I taste raindrops on your tongue,
as they trickle down our faces
and slip between lips.
Warm summer rain as we kiss,
on a crowded street, wrapped
in a feeling which makes us invisible.
Soaking clothes stick to smooth skin
as we lose ourselves, floating together,
while reality wanders by unnoticed
Silver stars twinkle playfully in puddles
while our giggles echo into the night
tickling and teasing in the dark.
But then I awake; on an empty street
alone and drenched in sorrow;
looking up into a violet sky.
Raindrops turn to tears as I realise
that you were never really here at all
and I am lost, as I have always been.
Between the pages
of the book you left for me
on the bedside table.
In the silver of the air
beneath your slender fingers
gliding across cold ivory.
In the minute intervals
between the notes you sang
to soothe my silence.
It is in these spaces,
these precious places,
that I am – still.
When it began it was immense; a huge canvas that she spread her words on with a
palette knife; thick and gloopy; metaphors that melted him, images of hopes and
dreams that opened his eyes and his heart and his mind; alliteration that
lifted him out of himself and into her beautiful painting. As the days
passed the colours deepened and when the sun filtered through
the blinds in the mornings they glistened; still wet from the
night before. Days ran into weeks ran into months and
they lay content in each other; surrounded by oils and
brushes and words and images. Time passed by so
quickly; supplies ran thin; she watered down the
colours; tried to make them last but it was no
use. She struggled to find the jet black of
his hair; the burnt umber of his skin;
the liquid brown of his eyes. She
sent him away to search for the
words and the colours that she
needed but when he returned
she had gone; taking the
painting with her; leaving
behind an emptiness
he had never known
and it was as if
she had never
in fury’s wake
I’ve started attending funerals
of people I barely know
and although I shouldn’t go
I stand at the back
all dressed in black;
eyes fixed firmly
on the casket up front.
Sadly, I lack
any sorrowful thoughts
for the poor rotting corpse
but it’s a good place to hide –
no-one questions your tears
when someone has died.
It seems I have been a little careless
with one of my internal organs.
I haven’t mislaid it or anything;
I didn’t leave it on the bus –
the one I always caught straight from work
to spend a few precious hours
‘playing away’ before returning home
to drown in domesticity.
If I’d left it on the number 27 to Barnes
it probably would have been picked up
and pocketed by the sleazy guy who always
sat opposite, sneaking sly glances
at my stockinged legs
over the top of his newspaper
or perhaps it would have been
into a shiny briefcase, to be sold
on the black market for a handsome price
by one of the sharp suited city boys
down on his luck.
No, instead, I gave it away without a thought –
piece by tiny precious piece;
little bloody scraps caught on
the thorny stems of roses
carried away by moonlight and melodies
until there was nothing left for me.
Funny, I always thought it would be
my liver that went first…
Colour seeps from my world
leaving only a sharp
that slices my eyes
from corner to corner.
Soon, the only
remaining picture of us
will be transformed
into a salty puddle
of smudged charcoal –
and then you can frame it
and hang it on your wall.
My palms are scarred
where I tried
to tattoo your name
but it wasn’t until
began to fade
that I felt the pain.
I come each day
to the scene.
There is little evidence now
of any great tragedy;
no twisted metal
strewn across the road –
it has all been swept away.
But some days
when it has been raining
I can still see
tiny pieces of glass
embedded in the tarmac
when the sun comes out.