Words For You.

On that dark night

With wild hands

And bite marks on neck.

It was scary.

Scary good.

Scary nice.

Scary terrifying.

In that park

I never knew what one

With stolen snaps in the lamp

Post lights.

I wanted you closer,

Maybe,

I needed you.

Then we sang

Child hood musicals

On the train home.

Sharing earphones

And bursting something

I hadn’t felt in so long.

We got off alone

Different stations

But I’d never felt less lonely.

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Reasons.

We matter

because my

heart has somehow

found it’s way to you.

It’s still early

but I’m in for this.

I’m alive for this.

Staying with you-

being with you –

I only seem to

want it to be more.

More of you.

More of me.

More of us.

I’m down for juice,

ice-cream

and TV.

Your arms around me

are comfort.

Safe.

Warm.

We matter

because I think

It’s special.

The romance writer

struggles with this –

real isn’t in my mind,

It’s everything else.

It’s neck kisses

and holding you hand

and above all –

the smile I get around us.

You said sometimes it’s

like I disappear.

Promises are a heavy thing

but I promise

I’m sticking around.

Being around you

still gives me butterflies.

We matter

because of

those butterflies.

And I can’t wait

for what we do

together

  • how long or

how short

that could be

but I’m ready

to finally play videogames

and finish Tv series’

and find new snacks.

Above all,

I’m yours.

 

The Last Time I Drank…

Here are my mind mumbles.

This is from late August.

Okay, I’ll be honest.

This is a new kind of hazy.

I got high without the drugs,

The help.

I’m high on us.

On last night

  • and all the nights before –

I want to keep drinking it in.

Though, perhaps not,

actually drinking now

because it’s all a little blurry.

There’s me and you

and us and them

and all of us in

dim lighting and round stools.

It’s a snapshot

coloured in a

certain shade

of happy.

And while I almost

can’t feel anything

I know

I have all these special ones for you.

Head Above Water.

I’ve been trying not to sink,

floating upon wonders of the unbelieve

-able. They’re buried, rooted below

illusions of this granted

reality. Victory

of armbands, never

 

the no safety. Never

the permission to sink,

providing the victory

of surviving. You won’t believe

what I can do. Thriving on granted

time. Maybe I’ll peek below

 

the bed tonight, below

all things safe…but never

Second guess the granted –

There are vampires ready to sink

into you. Believe

  1. They’ll hold their victory

 

and claim previous victory

over destroyed minds. You’re below

them. Still refusing to believe?

They come in human form too. Never

disguised for long. Sink

-ing to new lows granted

 

by dark times. Granted

by unwon victory’s.

I’ll help you swim, no room to sink

down and below

the surface to drown. Never

lift your feet, only heads to believe

 

in all things left to believe –

Like surviving. You’ve been granted

breath. Warm. Cold. Mist. Frost. Never

anybody’s else’s. That’s yours alone. Personal victory

sought just below

but not enough to sink.

 

Captured to believe in the refusal to sink,

And I’ll never belittle this victory

for granted. Above not below!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late nights waiting for you.

Place this. Struck with passion,

pause the unsaid words

and peeling emotion of raw

hearts now turning to disjoint.

My feelings for you are giant,

tanged sweet, candles smelling of orange

 

in a concept of yellow. We’re orange

in hue, more coloured like a passion-

fruit. Texture giant,

no more words,

choking on the disjoint-

ed rightness of us. Raw

 

moments and raw

hunger, the first of orange

juice after teeth-brushing. Ew. Disjoint

our presumed passion

through sweet words.

We’re not ants. Instead giants

 

among our growing giant

vocals of roar,

syllabic words

and a town of orange

where passion

is all but disjoint.

 

Slotted, no corners, disjoint

pieces incorrectly. Giant

slabs, no incline of passion

-ate, pearls of raw.

We don’t speak the orange

skinned language. Words

 

of coherent. Preserved words

to not disjoint

our warm orange

glow, the giants

whisper, small, stolen passion

 

and words of unspoiled passion

don’t spoil the orange bubble, the silent giant

will not disjoint the raw.

 

 

 

Phone note words from last week.

I miss when we used to play. Free

like birds, arms flailing. Planes? Guarantee

smiles imagination running course,

fuelled and full, never empty.

Let’s play robots. Rigid

and dance. Release is often

 

brought by food, often

halted by dinner, meals that are still free

and crinkly chips rigid

with their shape. You can guarantee

we draw it with a squiggle. Empty

plates, three meal course

 

polished with ice cream – well of course!

Too often

do we have cake. Empty

eyes of adults. Are they free?

Left with the guarantee

of growing up. Rigid

 

with morphing bones. Rigid

from unwanted hormones. The course

of growing up. The fault of no guarantee

of playing. Jobs too often

swipe fun. Be free

for a moment. The only empty

 

should be weekends – empty

of overtime. Time for play. Rigid

in routine. Won’t you be free

again? Yeah, sure, ‘course

to everything all too often.

No time. No guarantee

 

of any previous promised guarantee,

words so empty.

I won’t grow up. Won’t often

forget to play. Stuck and rigid

in awkward course

of life. Keeping free

 

to intimate moments. The guarantee of time free

your own. Often stopping the rigid

routine. Empty the calendar. Day’s running its course.

Snapshot. Sestina – Harry.

So, I’m framing us. Stuck between

the fragments of always and reality. We flew

to the future. Gone

were distractions. Other people. Happened

was us. Cast in picture hooks without

a nail. We need

 

a table or side to view the need

of happy. We were, we are between

the sheets, in the streets, hand in mine without

care, in the wind stray hairs flew

and for once you left the mess that happened –

danced until even all the gel had gone.

 

Waking up to pillow cologne that’s yours. You’re gone,

left me in the too big bed, the need

to start the day not quite right. What happened?

I woke between

the twilight hours because of nightmares. Flew

strangely into bedtime fits without

 

knowledge of the ghouls. Without

the view of the frame. Gone

are fiendish things, blew – flew

to far corners. I need

more frames. Slices of moments between

memories happened

 

in our timeline. Happened

in the rain, sun, snow, leaves without

rust. Stranded between

our shades of content, gone

were worries. I need

these frames. It’s like we flew

 

with no caution. Flew

with no landing. It happened.

We started falling. And now I need

this. Love without

caution. Real clichés between

phantom of fantasy gone

 

so very right – flew straight between

the want and the need of us without

severe worrying. We’ve happened. Never be gone…