The boy no longer clings to my waist.
I wish he was,
because this room smells sterile in a way that makes me unsettled,
and it would be so uncouth to cling to you,
as our tears fall,
and a man tells us what we already know.
I don’t know how I will tell the boy.
He’s a man, now,
but every man becomes a boy again when faced with fate’s cruelty.
I don’t know if I can comfort him as he cries,
when I am already falling apart just thinking about it.
The doctor’s doom fades away,
and we are on honeymoon again,
holding hands as the sun sets over the south pier at Blackpool,
the Irish Sea singing a sweet song about how life is just a fantasy,
if you let it be.
Let me dream.
Don’t let go of my hand, Blue.
Once the night has fallen,
the day you have lived is lost.
I’ve told you this,
so many times,
that of course,
I expect everyone to know,
but I still shine, forlorn under the glowing moon,
with eyes, wide like my hips,
my lips treated to the taste of my salty, insatiable tears.
I always forget,
that when the sun sets,
there is nothing left but forward steps,
nowhere else to go,
nothing else to live, but the rest of your life.
I cling to empty air,
closing my eyes so that I can’t see how final that goodbye really was.
The past is done with me,
and me? I am dumbstruck,
dawdling on the lawn in my best black dress,
with my grandmother’s ring on my finger,
and my grandfather’s scarf tied up in my hair.
I am covered in old and borrowed things,
betrothed to a blessing with sapphire sight,
living new days all the time,
sitting, sublime in black lace,
alone in the dark night,
but ready to change,
charging from my garden like an impatient butterfly.
Tomorrow I shall wear her ring.
Tomorrow won’t be like today.
Tomorrow won’t be like tonight.
I bought you a cherry cola when we stopped for gas outside the city borders,
you looked bored, my shades atop your head,
my bubble gum lost in your jaws,
until, of course, you saw the Adonis behind the counter, saving for college, blushing a little, but flashing a smile,
as you waved like Queen Cleopatra.
Your eyeliner was messy,
because you’d slept in it,
but you had drawn a fresh heart on your left cheek,
convinced that it’s presence,
in red felt tip,
would attract a great love into your lonesome life,
along with the star that lived on the right side of your face,
that we had decided would bring you fame (or an asteroid that could be named after you, which is basically the same thing for two kids).
You asked me the hot checkout guy’s name,
pouting for at least an hour when I said I didn’t know,
but boldly singing to the radio all the way home.
Bay City boy,
with a smile and some sarcasm for everyone you meet,
lay down on the grass with me,
when the sun is high,
and the shadow of Independence Bridge feels even taller.
Just stay with me,
and look bored,
so bored and so beautiful.
I am lost in my reflection,
painting away my pain,
ebony across my eyelids and pink paint on my soft lips.
This is just the vanity of the violet divinity,
with my eyelashes thunderous and thick,
throat full of codeine that tampers with my whisky dreams.
Dreams where I am not defined by what I see,
because I just feel sweet peach lights dancing all across my skin,
soft violins play out the sun set,
and I am so beautiful.
My nail polish is chipped,
but I am cheery,
chasing the high of my garden defying the odds and blooming before my eyes.
There is a child round my waist,
chipper and cherub cheeked,
asking for ice cream,
with pleading brown eyes that I recognise as my own.
Then there is you, Blue,
prying the boy from my body,
careful not to crush the rose bushes with his flailing legs,
as you take him off to the freezer,
like you used to do with me.
I am so satisfied.