You are unknowable,
unreachable as you stand before me,
teaching me all the things I tried not to see,
touching me with coquettish, cautious fingertips that remember to be gentle.
I build a castle from the empty capri sun cartons that gather by the bedside,
and you and I watch box sets and play pretend as the day dims and becomes night.
You were supposed to be the sensible one,
saving me from myself
sunlight in sweet sorrow,
but I spiral so much quicker when I’m by your side.
I sing jazz from your soft sheets,
your lips on my cheek,
red lipstick, smeared against my soul,
and despite the hectic chaos,
I think I might be happy.
Just a hopeless touch,
a wish that won’t leave me be.
A dashing daydream.
Life is for lovers.
That’s what you traced with your tongue on my trembling lips,
as we kissed from one day to the next,
moored at midnight but making our way into morning,
the moon shining across the icy, frost filled garden that we shivered in.
It was puerile to be so passionate,
but there was nothing else for it,
and I belonged to nobody else but you,
bright under the sparkling sky,
glistening and growing impatient as your touch began to slow.
I am a raging tempest of hormones and hopes,
hung up on the heavenly idea of something so special that I do not dare to say it.
Will you believe with me?
I bathed the world in black and white,
baring my soul,
wandering the night with an angel.
I had so many questions,
so many shadows that stalked us as we walked,
so many scenarios that danced around my head,
obsessed with the idea that life would be more wonderful without me in it.
I’d like to say that it was a somber scene,
everyone falling apart at the seams without me to sew them together,
but my ego was astounded,
ascending to the darkest depths,
because as it all turns out,
I am not the centre of the universe,
and most people’s lives do not wither and die if I do not exist.
It’s okay to be inconsequential,