Towering above heaven,
a hundred feet tall.
You, the talk of the town,
a town with one resident,
except her treehouse voyeur,
always whistling Tchaikovsky,
accompanied by thunder.
Never climbing down,
baited breath and icy stare,
holding her dreams inside of your hands,
tightly, but with enough room for them to breathe.
Your power was my own now,
but it felt foreign to my fingertips,
You had been a stormy stone for so long,
struggling to summon me home,
just bones, returned to the earth,
your name etched into the slab of grey,
no guilt, just a strange discomfort,
and an obligation that never felt quite urgent.
It was nothing to be frightened of.
I recalled a verse from a long lost friend,
wooden boxes, and someone he truly loved,
and I wondered if I’d ever be able to write for you in the same way,
scolding myself for the lateness of my grief,
surprised at how cruel and cold I could be.
Did you make me this way?
Does it matter?
I wore a crown of chrysanthemums and chopped onions the day that you were banished beneath the soil,
but it did no good.
My eyes were the Sahara,
sandy and sapless,
and I was cruel and cold,
just the way you made me.
I moved back to the city, followed by the girl I never loved,
she sewed the night’s stars into her smile,
her eyes lit up the dark clatter of the underground’s tunnels,
and I was furious, hunted by my own denial,
and all that the thought of her did to me.
I can’t quite quit the quiet heaven of being held by you,
the heavy sigh of weary lovers filling the room,
your coffee, cooling on the bedside table,
chocolate bars for breakfast,
and a tender kiss for a sleep aid.
I am tired of the terror,
the outside world and all its horror.
You are so warm,
so, screw civilisation.
I don’t want to participate in anything but this.
The roses were on borrowed time,
nestled in nectar from the kitchen tap,
watching us from the mantle,
as I made an excuse to envelop you in my anxious arms again,
like a child with a blanket,
or a hopeless case with a last chance.
You wanted revenge, and I was your solitary soldier.
My guns were so peaceful, until they were not,
and you waved me off to another war,
stained with my scarlet kiss,
safe in your breast pocket as I severed the sweetest dreams,
clattering home with trophies and trinkets for my mistress.
The roses remained,
glowing with my youth as I yearned for you, from the door step.
With a flourish,
a frantic meeting of our much maligned lips,
I was home,
confessing my sins,
healing in your arms,
thrilled, once again, by your gratitude,
and all it’s gifts.