“Blanched Greed”

There is nothing civil about your love.

It wrecks me,

not a dove,

but a vicious longing.

Something you created.

I buried myself inside your pulse,

while you sat and watched,

that girl,

sitting at the bar.

And the next time I saw you, there was a smile,

framed by bleached lips.

When I asked you,

where you got them from,

you said it was just a friend.

“Holding the Man”

What do you say?

Will you run away?

With me, in you hand-me-down car?

I know a place, I promise we’ll be safe,

no one will see.

Your father knows, and so does mine.

Welcome to the unemployment line,

so long as we’re together.

I bought you a ring today,

and as the woman boxed it away,

she asked me who it was for.

As you can imagine, I was shown the door.

I understand, why being different is such a cause for concern.

Still I yearn, to take you, my darling, to Italy.

Where I will dance in the dawn with you,

and hold your hand in public.

Where you will guide me down the sand,

and away from dry land.

We’ll float, side by side,

inviting the tide,

to our wedding.

We are playing a game,

in their eyes, a false declaration, a schoolboy crush.

But my sight only falls on you.

My love, my husband.

I don’t need anyone’s permission.

Because when I kiss you,

I taste the stars.

My hands start to shake.

I grab onto you,

as our prophet delivers his final words.

I can feel your heartbeat,

as quick as a hummingbird’s.

Then nothing, as you turn to look at me.

I guess Italy will have to wait,

for something less ornate.

But we will stay together.

I won’t leave you.

It’s got a hold of you now, my dear.

But I still have that smile you gave me,

your beautiful laugh.

I replay them in my head,

as your lips see red,

and the ocean steals you away for good.

It is in Italy that I will be misunderstood.

Lying in a golden glen,

holding you,

time and again.

“Melancholy Marigold”

I watched as you were felled.

A trembling leaf, a newborn,

just being written.

You were so small,

a seed in the arms of your whitman,

who cared for you.

The day it happened was a pretty one, so blue it was as if a sapphire melted,

dripping all over the sky’s yellow smock.

You were sitting in the garden, letting the breeze play with your hair.

I watched with pursed lips as your caregiver smoothed the mess back, tying it up with a red ribbon.

Your shoulders slumped under the weight of his expectations, his vision of what you should be.

I had brought it up in conversation before, only succeeding in getting the man very cross with me.

He knew what he was doing, what he was writing.

I believed him.

While distant and rather moody, your guardian was rarely lead astray.

But you never were quite enough for the man, and I felt sorry for you both,

because you loved each other.

That fact made it all the worse,

when he ripped you in two and tossed you in the crimson grass.

I was never able to tell which of you were the one bleeding.

Your architect clutched his ink-stained kerchief to his mouth as he watched you writhe in the new patch of tulips, their arms just beginning to bud.

You looked up at him with tired eyes,

scratched out and revised to the point of breaking.

I later learned that the red was from your makers pen,

thrown askew from his sullen outburst,

and dripping into the green.

“Coffee Stains”

I wish I knew how to look at you,

because then I may understand why your eyes never smile.

They find my face,

but can’t bring themselves to answer my questions.

It breaks me,

because I never learned your language.

So I can’t ever be one of you.

The eyes that you gave me,

aren’t lasting out here.

I’m losing you,

I fear.

Is this an addiction?

Am I suffering in silence or is this how you teach?

It seems you set me up for failure,

when I met you.

I hope you enjoy the taste.

“Far from Meeting”

She peers through lenses to see the world,

she sees it through fire.

She believes in solutions and concentrations,

an owl amongst pigeons.

But she is kind.

She doesn’t believe in much,

only what she sees through the smoke.

Her vision is hazy, but she is keen.

She puts her faith in the smeared glass in front of her,

a broken pocket watch without a chain.

She renounced god a long time ago,

breathing through her nose and eating the fire that licked her face.

They collided once,

the flames and the monocle.  

They destroyed each other.