Dropped

Dropped

I tried to write them down; all the moments she made me feel flooded with love. I quickly began dropping moments. Watched them hit the tiling and panicked, as my shaking hands let slip the first time she said “I think I love her”, the first time she opened her sleepy eyes and smiled, the …

The Paperwork

The Paperwork

I littered her life with the detritus of love. My adoration pressed by pens into folded tissues, scraps of wrapping paper, backs of envelopes. She would open drawers and untie shoelaces and lift pillowcases to find me tumbling out in a rush of words. Eager to remind her in my absence that she was loved. …

The Bone Collector

Sometimes my breath catches in my throat and the very stillness of an earth going a thousand and three miles per hour gets lodged there. Sometimes these simple exchanges leave me breathless, croaking on dust: the unfiltered pigments of other people’s skin and blood and ash but with my tarred lungs and itchy eyes I …

Far and Away

We can still be children. Don’t fret on facts or filing, they can wait til morning, they can wait for us, they won’t charge on without. We can still be children – the moon can still be a target for us to chase after, the stars a map of the implorably possible! We can still …

Back to Black

Sable bristles dipped in ink seep black branches into the dipcurve at the base of her spine. I wrote it where she would never look; because even if she could see it she wouldn’t be able to see it. She’d laugh and say ‘I know’, but she wouldn’t know, she wouldn’t see. Held my wrist …

Pain Relief

He mistook the points of her hipbones for poignancy and kissed those sharp edges til they dulled under his affections – he chased the phantoms from the wide-set corners of a mind that bent, bowed and broke in the curvature. He mistook her needs for her need and tried to save her meanwhile, flourishing under …

Stitches

Her name is Stitches and I love her. She doesn’t believe that – she says it is an improbability. She doesn’t say impossibility and that gives me hope. No one but me knows why she’s called Stitches. I’ve run my hands over her soft white skin, Flushed with the fevers of midnight. I’ve touched it. …

A Summer Wild

The grass was higher than her hemline and when we ran it whipped tallies into her skin. Faint reminders of her feints at death that ran along each artery. She flew; like leaves tossed high upon a summer wild into the seasons greetings. It greeted her; the sun kissed her as an idol. So did …

Aslant A Brook

Songbirds tumbled from her ears and swept down the cliff-edges in her hair to swoop away and out – out of the way of the turbulence of her drowning – they skipped across the ripples in the lake and dodged the mountainous willow leaves, cuttling out of dodge, as Ophelia wept. The nest dissolved, feathers …