She Always Will Be

She Always Will Be

what a gift it is to find that person,
someone who has read every page of you like a book
has not just leafed-through but construed and memorised
and chosen to love every word inside

what a gift to crumble in love,
to fall apart in the arms of another
to dismantle and disfigure in front of her eyes
show her what dust love made me into

a love that takes your lungs away is a blessed curse,
it drips like poison into the mouth and takes away your tongue
I was loved so much that I became less than nothing
a favourite blanket keeping warm empty space

to know that she will always be the one
to both light me up with her laugh
and extinguish me with her breath
and that no one else will ever make me burn again

what a gift it is to crumble with love,
to fall in love was to fall into no reality.
to wake up a stranger at the bottom of the sky
and unable to live without that gift any longer.

I don’t know how to write a poem about love anymore

I don’t know how to write a poem about love anymore

I don’t know how to write a poem about love anymore
how do you spill your heart out
when there’s no glow left to hold there
I don’t know what it feels like to be held
and not wish for someone else
or not wish for more
what happened to the love that I once was surrounded by
all I feel of it now is a longing
like an empty space on a bookshelf otherwise full
or an empty hand
the right carrying my jacket
the left closed but somehow reaching out for one of its own that belongs to someone else
I read romance in novels and I see it in those that I care so deeply for
(the glisten in their eyes and
the smile that sometimes escapes them when they think no one’s looking)
but to see is not the same as feeling it
and to feel it is not the same as giving it
how do you write a poem about love when you lost yours long ago?
There are slopes along my waist where hands used to hold me
to feel safe in someone’s arms in a world like this is an eclipse
I have become so used to just being a penny rather than a 2 pence
that I thought I had moved on from the ache I used to feel between my ribs
but now, as I write this,
in my one-bedroom flat on the cool sheets of my single bed,
I feel it has been there all along.

A dirty paintbrush into my lemonade ~ a poem

A dirty paintbrush into my lemonade ~ a poem

I love you
But I’m scared of what you’d make me into
I’m like clay
Muddy, upside down, slippery, undone.
Carve me.
I was a thousand things before I met you
Each time I thought that I’d found myself
But I’m one messy heck of a person
My head is a rose garden
Thorns, prickles, whatever they’re called
It hurts from time to time
But I’m sure you wouldn’t mind
I suppose it’s fine to be upside down and tongue tied.
But then
A dirty paintbrush into my lemonade.
I worry about things like that
You tangling me up and unravelling me again
What a mess we’d make but I think we’d be smiling.
Paintbrush, lemonade, dirty.

September Rain

September Rain


The rain is looping down outside my window,

Summer doesn’t blind like it used to.

It’s September already and

My heart can’t believe it’s over so soon,

I miss the thunder

Desperate shouting in the incalesence

And pearlised flashes in the navy skies

A smile : August.

Blurry eyes and edges melt,

Like candles blown out,

On overiced birthday cakes

We’re getting colder somehow,

We’re losing our way.

Do you remember those magic spells?

The July ones, where you cast me

Round your beating focus,

And I simply fell straight into you.

Habits die hard but

Each day I am forgetting;

Losing out on remembering you.

And each second I’m regretting

Letting sunshine blind us both so blissfully

That moment when August turned September,

Was when we seemed to melt,

(Like ice creams in warm hands).

It’s sad because I’ve stopped missing you.

And I’ve let the rain wash out,

Any taste of sun cream kisses

And glowing memories of you.

Because September’s fading fast,

And we don’t talk like we used to.