I washed up in the waves of your memory,
dressed in last night’s lovely dream,
hair soaked in salt water and the solemn recollection of the last time your eyes encompassed me.
I only arrive when you ask.
Don’t blame me for my presence,
when you presented yourself to the ocean and pleaded for her to pull me back into your orbit.
I am nothing but a whisper in the dark,
but when you bring me here,
you behave as if I am the moon and stars themselves,
bowing low on the floor,
writing sonnets in the sand with shaking fingertips,
and I stand in cautious confusion,
because you’re always so sweet,
for a second or two,
before the paradise of love falls away,
like a sandcastle doing battle with the might of the sea.
Tag: confessional
…And That’s Why I Drink
Your hand is closed over mine,
as we ascend the escalator,
avoiding the band aid on the banister,
and my sudden affection for americanisms.
It’s not a criticism,
but I’m in an awful position,
lobotomised by the way that your eyes,
are endlessly enchanting.
We are escaping.
Ebbsfleet to Stratford,
say the tickets on my person,
but my heart is international,
angsting and agonising over my mistress,
Miss Australia,
I’ll miss you when you’re sick of me.
My heart is intentionally international,
soaring to the sights of holiday shop windows,
when I am with you,
transferring from highspeed to tube,
singing Send Her To Me,
to soothe your underground anxiety blues.
Drinking,
like Miss Diane,
on the overground,
to deal with the depths of my obsessional
possessiveness,
because the truth is,
this never normally happens to me.
I’m sincerely sorry for being in love on TFL.
As it happens,
it’s never this strong,
never so deep,
but I keep throwing myself down to the ground,
on the off chance that I can descend further into full on “Fuck.
I love her so much.”
Hello,
it’s me again.
Selfishly,
I stand in the way of the world,
staring,
eating up every atom of my universe,
holding my mouth with my shaking hands,
so it won’t stay open,
in awe of affection in its true human form.
Stay true to me,
on the train,
our escalator escapades.
Feels like I’m living,
in a love song,
orchestra on the overground,
night after night,
as long as you’re around.
RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Virgin Vogue
Sad Girl’s Love Song
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Sincerely, Jennifer x 