Is it too much to ask?
My pen feels heavier with each hopeful word,
desire dirtying the clean, crisp paper.
Gut wrenching guilt,
I am down on my knees,
the river Thames has found a new home,
past the bursting bank of my lashes,
down my cheeks,
onto my bed sheets.
reciting the things my aching fingertips reach for in my sleep,
as if I can call them into the world as I awake.
I close my eyes,
but the flood doesn’t falter.
I daydream about last summer.
Red pylons in the distance,
the ones that made me nostalgic for the Blackpool Tower,
as I chain smoked in solitude,
writing love songs to nobody in particular in the park.
Is it too much to ask,
for the peace that I plead for,
prayed into the air and pledged into paper?
Will it ever come?
Will I know what to do with it when it does?