Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?
Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair
Read More
crying — that godawful sign of life
panic — occasional sign of love —
sparrows in their branches shrieking to each other
about the cat in the grass.
Read More
Sweet bubble bath, absorb me.
Smooth as buttermilk,
filling my senses with acrid lavender aroma.
Distorted features through shifting blue,
streaks of pale skin, rippling and dividing
as reflected tranquillity.
Tempting seeking hands to
break through the surface.
Read More
For they used to grip the edges of the scorching bowls of soup,
For they used to knead the dough and imitate Jamie Oliver,
Sprinkling herbs and thymes over a Tesco-like pizza.
Read More
Each day at noon,
I visit you,
Knocked on your door,
Fixed by the bolt,
Peered through the foggy windows,
Blurred by thoughts.
Read More
If sleep is death being shy,
Then a single bed is a shallow grave,
Then pillow talk is your final breath,
Then goodnight is goodbye.
Read More