in faint heartbeats and palpable sighs
with the weight of only a feather
and the lengths of the skies
i’ve bared my soul
to watch it thrive
like the sweetest fruit
that grows on vines
i’ve always known love: a messy explosion!
it is ruptured skins and oozing flesh
tearing away at the graceful steps
of the fluid dancer’s choreography.
chewed up! the limbs are left
a clumsy entanglement
a lover’s regret
the skin is bitter
it tastes of wine
helps the lover forget –
the loved is not divine.
you are a forever memory of a summer already passed, but i feel your warmth still.
on days i am naive, i think you a blanket in this harsh winter. i dream of you, within my grasp, your hugs a promise of everlast.
on days i am angry, i think you Florida’s heat. The suffocating humidity leeching on my skin, infiltrating my lungs, an intruder in every inch of my being. except what i despise most is your absence- no, your willingness to be absent, your lack of intrusion.
on days i simply am, i do not think of you. i like to believe that i do not think of you. i only wish you well. i hope you are well. are you well?
old soul, why do you torment yourself?
why do you chain your feet
and claim yourself flightless?
what are you looking for?
pity? in this reservoir of pain you will find,
but for what? at the expense of what?
you slice your skin
to taint the reservoir red
a cry for help, the signs i see.
but do you see?
you torment me, too,
this resentment you hold is buried
so deep within veins
of blood foreign to me.
old soul i’ve swam the river to get to you.
i’ve given you all my bandaids and safety pins.
old soul, i’ve tried my best.
old soul, i love you.
but old soul, i cannot give you what you want.
for what you seek is dark and grim
sinister like the sight of a slaughtered pig-
what you seek is death.
i can’t convince a walking dead man to live.
the birds perched themselves on my window today.
pecked at my hand while i fed them grain. When they’d had their fill they sang hymns as i watched but stopped as soon as my gaze dropped.
it was as though they’d heard the echoed sadness bounce from the walls of my confinement.
for they looked at me in pity — but i only smiled, and then they flew away.
like a box of strawberries –
a guessing game!
the odds at 50/50
neither certain nor tame
sweet or sour? or both?
the sweetness lingers,
coating the palette,
it is a candied touch!
the sourness stings,
making me flinch,
it is a warning nudge!
for awhile it was a honeyed streak,
every taste making me fall too deep.
I could almost hear, my mama shriek:
thread slowly down, it is steep!
A fool I was, I didn’t care!
I knew that I’d seen love there!
No Jack, just Jill,
tumbling down the hill,
rolling through the strawberry field.
it was a slow birth – our love,
like the wavering flame that never seemed quite sure of how long it might keep burning.
i thought it strangled at first, it’s struggle for oxygen, threatening to out a heartbreak at any given moment. My impatience for love meant my confidence was depleted, i contemplated putting it out myself.
but you, with your Gentle Giant hands always fed it kindle, quiet whispers of air to keep it ablaze. Your love was compelling, a sky of orange and reds, the heat a comforting wave of warmth.
I learnt oranges and reds are my favourite colours. You are my favourite colour. Thank you for teaching me the colours of love.
Hold my body like a prayer,
whisper sacred hymns.
Chant the blessed rituals,
tell none of the way we sin.
Delicate dancers falling in step,
the melody a casket witnessing our love.
Joint harmony on the world class stage,
private lovers belting our song.
We move in perfect rhythm
chest, breast, thigh, waist.
Complements painting skylines
of reds and pinks, oranges and yellows
an explosion of colours
the crackling campfire flame.
i paint you in my mind.
Portrait of mixed mediums,
Oil my favourite in the way it blends and glides-
Takes forever to dry as though a reminder
that mistakes too were meant to be.
i keep coming back to you.
Adding little details to old memories,
Already hazed and unclear
i keep coming back
pretend you weren’t already my artist’s pick
as though revisiting this portrait would change
the bold first strokes that were long dry,
the purposeful mess of the last strokes
that had long passed us by
i sign my name on this finished piece
my proudest work – it is fine time I let you go.
i am a believer
heart working full-time trust
mode of transport; unlimited second chance concessions.
but i no longer can. there is nothing beautiful about the way my heart clenched
like the butcher’s meat bound with twine, spilling over from every slit:
blood-choke, gasping for air, salty traces of the way i drowned dripping- no,
oozing; meaning giving a powerful impression of – the way my trust
was an unwanted gift, you hadn’t been ready to accept.
for now i have learnt the deadly ache of heartbreak,
realised the sinister effects of trust
and this ache, i will remind myself to bear.
this time, the concession pass has expired.
this time, there is no free second chance.
you are caramelised skies, a sweet glaze over the almost burnt shadow of all that i once was and i look to you and wonder if this perfect fairytale might shatter with a sharp knock, a harsh reminder of all that is cruel and earthly.
baby, you are, what my dreams are made of and so i pray that you hold the weight of all that is heavy and bound toward me: For i am the centre of gravity of all things grave.
“baby, you are, what dreams are made of” – Evann McIntosh