to the betrothed

The sweet chirp of a parrot at the feeder

seems as innocent as your love.

When it breathes,

exhales pure oxygen.

When it clicks,

It doesn’t scrape.

There is no friction.

In this fusion

I see no confusion,

it pairs better than lemonade.

 

So much trust,

any storm that tried to rust it

would be exhausted.

You never have to force it.

A smooth union

I can base all my hope on.

A hand in the dark,

glowing like a flare.

 

A dam of love retention

swells with my attention.

The adoration emanating from your skin

and the gaze of child to idol,

are akin.

Makes me wonder

how I can rid all the tension

from within.

 

Open faces

hide nothing.

I’ve looked a thousand places,

not many will share that look.

An open book,

a pleasure to read.

You turn the pages

from one joy to another.

Delights that last

for ages.

Like an open window,

I see the spots I would go

if I could understand how you got there.

 

Each moment only takes it higher

for me to admire.

So much better

than me.

I doubt my mind will ever be that clear,

but for my heart

I will never say never.

 

It keeps me going

through the times I sit crying

about; all the things in the world dying,

all the people who are lying,

all the ones who struggle so hard

are barely just surviving,

all the values that need reviving

but everyone’s stopped trying.

 

The density and magic of hurtloam,

the intensity and comfort of feeling at home,

the guarantee of not being alone.

The golden taste of the season’s first fruit

reminds me of the smiles I see shared

between you.

I smile too.

I know,

in your hands

the world will be safe.

I Am Termites, I Am Wood

There is no sleeping now.

There is a thing

called a self-destructor.

I am one.

I am a big one.

I will spend all night

in the sand,

looking at my hands.

Thinking

I should have put them

on my mouth

before my voice

sent things

heading south.

Freud

and death-drives,

have they chased me

my entire life?

I want…

I want…

I want…

but I stop myself

and I kill my health.

And I don’t want wealth.

I wish I was kelp.

I could drift,

I could drink,

I would not sink.

Self-sabotage

is my skill.

It stands large.

If you tell me to fold,

I will.

I know

where peace is,

peace just doesn’t want

any of my business.

 

I am sorry for me.

I am sorry to you.

 

linked

There’s no better way to say thank you than to tell someone they owe you something.

Because I had never had Toblerone, some things just get past you.

 

Sitting at a friend’s place in our early twenties, recalling the old times,

I never thought to tell you how I felt because I was so sure I knew what you’d say.

 

The birds still sounded happy and I muttered for them to fuck off

since the smoke in my lungs didn’t make me feel better.

 

Half wishing I had a visible scar

I was realising our minds forever work in reverse.

 

I am sure that life is always time spent wrong

and I’ve been right before

but not as often as I’ve been scared

 

on a beach path, riding my bike.

A little girl totters across and my brakes fail,

I had never desired so much to be somewhere else

 

Lying in bed after watching a great film,

listening to good music,

my frustrating youth allows me only to think of a girl.

 

Sipping my coffee in the morning and thinking it’s mediocre

before a bullet blasts through my office window

and into my chest, and there is a sinking feeling

but also a sense that my inner struggles are draining away.

 

I have questions about myself that no one else can answer

so most of the time I end up asking;

does my skin feel the same on theirs as theirs does on mine?