between reaching for blankets

between reaching for blankets I stop and try to hear myself. the silence isolates me from the certain refuge of distraction, and it takes a while to hear anything at all. the voice inside is quiet, and doesn't have a lot to say. I want to apologise for hiding and keeping my distance for so long. we both know that to learn and grow we have to come home to each other, though the thought itself is enough to keep me running. I am a stranger to the heart that keeps me moving. is it out of resentment that I neglect myself? perhaps I fear the questions I'll ask if I listen close enough. to reach for more is second nature now. at this point, I'll chase anything to drown out the uncertain loneliness of my own company. I wonder if we still speak the same language. will I ever do the work? I read the news and laugh at the war in my head from the sofa. how much can really matter to a world that doesn't want to know itself?

into scales

something more than words but not enough to write them off. waking from a dream enjoyed but never quite believed in. coil and cave into myself. I hide from the war I thought less about with you, like everything I lack and loath. the snake finds its tail and teeth sink into scales. we end where we begin to wake and do the same again. will we hold a candle to the way this feels tomorrow?

in the fresco

the absurd is a hug waiting on the platform at the end of the line. 'welcome home'. I take his hand to close the openness I can't deny enjoying with your help. his fingers are cold and familiar in a way yours could never be, though I can't say I wanted more than what you offered out of momentary intrigue. was it kindness in the end? when the sanctity of night retracted its claws, and the crows stirred, and the early rays of day colonised the delicate darkness of your room, and you woke to find me wrapped and fragile by your side, did you know you had to run? had you noticed the cracks in the fresco up close as I slept? did the spell break all at once? I start to think in past tense, though you were just around the corner. maybe if we used our words you still could be. maybe if I use my words you are.

the end of days alone

they drop bombs on a school of sleeping children who have lost their homes and parents. I follow along with the headlines (when I want to) between emails. from my desk I listen to the rain fall to soak my washing on the line. watch a little war on my phone to remember nothing matters in a world that won’t wake up. they target four cities at once and I can tune in from the comfort of my phone. I stream the end of days alone and hope you’ll try to reach me soon.

at your door

what was there was always more than enough. there’s no path to knowing what is truly meant by the choice of words we wield to frame the way we feel. make a guessing game of an open book and spiral into doubt. lying on the sand a question sprouts to close a door I never knew had opened. it’s then I see the way you’ve drawn me: a broken toy at once both fragile and desperate for more. he’s pathetic and I am rattled into feeling embarrassed like a child; told off for doing something wrong, going somewhere that I shouldn’t. I laugh in shock at misperception as we watch the clouds roll in. clear skies all confused now, not knowing I know better than to play with hope or want.

left embarrassed by rejection for a prize I never played for. I try to pull some sense from words that won’t align with how we’ve played it out til now. you wait for me to change and watch the skyline of the city from the grass. I wonder what you mean and if I’ll ever take your picture again. we leave things where I could almost swear we’d left the risk of hope or expectation (at your door). a place in a city where we’ve been no matter what’s to come.

finding the stones

follow the lines into the city left behind (for more?) familiar turns and street signs flash at passing headlights. I come crawling back much sooner than I should. clouds close into dark til tomorrow. wrapping myself in the embrace of armour stolen from my brother’s wardrobe I read and think of mystics and the people I admire. the artists talk about knowing themselves. I wonder how they feel about the war. the bus is pulling in now and I’m back where I was: as far from finding the stones as before. grip the moon round my neck and smile into windows between want and all the beds I need to make.

invisible ink

trace the roads on the map with fingers down veins into your hands. listen to the strangers sob down your neck, closer than the horse hanging over shoulders in the blue light of the nightmare at the end of the world. an ankle on an ankle through act ii and we talk without words in the dark. everything is fluid: I reach in the stream and nothing can be held but you are here today and there is always more to come.