I have been to Paris with old lovers, Paris with new friends, I have written poetry in pencil on the bells of Notre Dame, and damned myself to hell as I fell from the Eiffel Tower.
I belong everywhere. Daughter of dark nights, star filled skies and the melody of moonlight. Siren of slipping into sleep, then awaking in a dream, but it’s never the same, because I could never stick to one place.
I have been to the moon. I didn’t stay, it didn’t leave an impression. Before long, I was back on the barren rock I call home, swaying with the wayward winds, staring with a slight sneer at that big bitch in the sky, wondering why I gave her so much power.
I understand the moon. I have often agonised for hours over minutes of conversation, worrying that I didn’t leave an impression, some kind of connection that keeps them coming back, so that I am not on this rock, all alone.
I went back to the moon, to see what I could do. Not out of obligation, or because I was locked in her sad eyes, just because I saw myself in her solemn stare, and decided I needed to free myself from that sad image.
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. I chant, calling out, 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?
Your tears, my lover, they tear me apart, and I am rebuilt, no longer a soldier in the war of our wanting, just a dreamer in a field of dandelions, writing you a verse about the roses that grow when you blow me a kiss from your bedroom window.