Your headstone is enviable;
today, for its stark honesty –
yesterday and tomorrow for its existence
as a marker of my morbidity,
pulling the air from my lungs.

I shake out hot, clammy hands
past the wrought iron plot, tangled in reeds –
the smell of rust and remembrance
lurches forth,
reminiscent of old guitar strings
and your sweetly smelling head in my lap.

I wonder how many lovers are buried here
and how many of them, loved.



even the slightest noise is too much to bear
like the sound of a dripping tap, filling my mind to the furthest reaches
and stirring the silty memories that’ve long since settled there

silent tears
come as I wander the garden, picking flowers and scraping shins –
bees hang about offensively pink blooms, akin to fussing grandmothers –
I find myself hating the simplicity of their existence and the unexpected reminder of you,
but I should’ve known better than to hide from sorrow in nature –
you’re there, of course, in all pure things

for now
my grief continues to feel both ugly and beautiful
like your stained hanker-chief in my handbag –
this delicate, crumpled, lace-trimmed thing of yours,
an uncomfortably physical measure of time passing


makes for tepid emotion

Spoiled by silence,
the thought forms a soupy skin

I push it around with passive talk
before excusing myself

Keenly aware that I remain starved
of something intangible


I’m never quite sure
how dark the night
until I silence the lamp
and slip into bed

Some evenings, the glow is such
that I peer at the downy fuzz on your silhouette
and wonder if I will ever fathom my own heart –
Others, are so inky black
I must close my eyes to be certain
they weren’t already

I look for signs in times such as these,
painfully aware that I’ve always been desperate
to explain things to my restless self

I fear I’ll think all the same things,
always –
which should be of little concern to an illuminated particle,
momentarily suspended in a slice of sunlight





Found and fed,
Her flaws gorge on the words
That spill
From a reddened pout,
Bitten in bitterness
As the next string forms,
Bubbling at the corners
Of lips that kiss
Those of another
Whose words of affection
Are so removed from her own truth
They cause her mouth to moisten
Like a bitter fruit


A sigh betrays the breath before it
a breath so hot and full to bursting
that it warms me like the sound of unashamed laughter

Thoughts of you
make my lips stick to my dry teeth –
to the exposed, imperfect rows
of a smile too honest
to be self conscious of its strange company

I realised today
that I hasten to you
because I rest in you