Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

0 Days Since My Heart’s Last Nonsense

I tell you every day,

when I wake up,

a slave in your sheets,

that it doesn’t have to be true love.

I follow you from morning,

‘til night,

agonising over the accuracy

with which you target my soul,

by doing nothing in particular,

but being so damn persuasive.

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Being in love is a messy, miserable business,

hearts lead their victims,

to their death,

tricking them into expecting everything.

I want everything,

with you,

even if it hurts,

even if I don’t know exactly what everything is.

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Darling,

I miss the past,

I am the puritan hearted ingenuine ingenue,

who picked apart,

your ageing heart,

transporting out of myself,

so I could watch your essence melt,

inside of my mouth,

elated candy floss.

I didn’t expect you to expertly change me.

The stalkee has become the stalked.

It has been zero days,

since my heart’s last nonsense.


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Posted in Blog

Wallpaper

You had come to help my mother move house.

We were pretending that you were just a friend,

because it’s hard to explain the desperation of your separation,

when you’re separating someone else’s whole life apart,

to pack into neat boxes,

where nothing is complicated.

We said we’d save it for dinner,

we’d tell her about us over dinner,

a far away dinner,

that we don’t have to think about,

so,

for now,

every now and then,

we’d sneak off.

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You were a rushed but romantic whirlwind,

on my childhood bed.

A tender tornado

taking my mind off all the anxious thrill of moving on.

I was ignoring my ex,

in my pocket,

his texts,

jealous green,

ran up my screen,

across a picture of us,

that we had taken at Westminster Bridge,

where your hands had softly asked my waist

“Fuirich còmhla rium?”

and I understood

your hands were as sweet and sentimental

as the rest of you.

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I wasn’t sure why,

almost feeling envious of the way you could look at me,

and see somebody you wanted to be close to.

It was that day,

on Westminster bridge,

where the wind seemed to pull us together,

giving your well spoken hands exciting ideas,

that I decided I would look at that picture every day,

keeping you on my screen,

so close,

that I could almost hear your soft whisper

every morning that I awoke without your hands,

and their exotic accent (well, it’s exotic in Kent).

img_0045

So,

all that being said,

you can imagine how annoying it became,

to see someone running up and down the happy memories I was trying to make.

I couldn’t even remember how his hands sounded,

and I certainly didn’t care,

so I put my phone in my pocket,

pretending that we were in a place with no reception,

so I could be received by the safe span of your arms.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Mi Alma

You and I,

by the church,

holding hands,

listening to Cindy Scott,

in sweet silence,

that didn’t frighten or bore me.

That’s when I knew,

as the night wrapped her arms around us,

the sun fast asleep,

behind the tall trees of the square,

your hand,

still holding mine,

trembled and teased me,

and my heart wept as she lost control.

I knew,

as I glanced up at you,

to see you glancing back,

the most beautiful boy,

at our party for two,

surrounded by the stars,

cigarette hanging from the lips I loved,

and I,

so alive,

risen from the dead,

by your deadpan declaration of affection.

I knew,

on those steps,

as I sank into your sweeping shoulders,

my lashes meeting,

gossiping about you,

as my eyes closed,

and the city walked past,

staring at you,

as if they knew too,

and I knew,

that my soul,

was sitting on some steps,

in Leicester Square,

with his best girl in his arms,

and a cigarette hanging from the lips she loved.


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