Unabridged Journals

My Sundays now, Are filled with slowness, and lingering, And stillness in the sheets, with no Rush to rise, and no need to leave, Except perhaps for coffee, To which we might take the car, And maybe your dog, For a little trip, to the local bakery, Or the franchised café a little further on, If we can find a spot on the main street.

My Sundays now, Are filled with Carmex lip oil Being applied after kisses, And sipping and chatting, During breakfasts, and movies, And drives to the next town over, During afternoons where it is suddenly 5pm, and you ask if I want to stay An extra night. My Sundays now, Run into Mondays, and the Working week, and the rush hours, And the darkening skies on Weeknights, and the worries of Life beginning all over again At 9am, and never easing, Except for the relief to which The weekend might bring, That is now week-long, with you.

‘I love you, I love you so much. I know I’m drunk right now, But I really do love you.’

The year I spent, As not yet lover, not yet ex, Seems time well spent, Now to hear these words.

Even in memory she will Find this moment unbearably Intense, and she’s aware of It now, while it’s happening.

I am surprised to see That the ocean is still going on.

The revisits to art galleries, before the Collections were updated; The sifting through of audio to mp3, before Spotify and Apple playlists were collated.

The alleyways with hidden bookshops, That sold church-sponsored erotica; The electives we studied and the people we Loved, amid our exclusive exotica.

The gluing together, and falling apart, And love letters to them both; Sweet chaos, lulls and tides, And incandescent growth.

Dearest, Although everything has happened, Nothing has happened.

@inthehouseof @for-the-love-the-north

The morning air at Tayla’s Was so much crisper than the morning air At home, not that I often felt it, For I didn’t like to sit alone, But it was okay to sip my tea, With Tayla by my side, Early in the day when the others Were yet to rise.

The scattered books at Zara’s, Felt cosy over cluttered, The scrunched-up sheets at the foot of her bed, Were just like mine on rushed school mornings. And it was okay to sit and dote Upon her dog, when I felt lost and foggy, Late in the day when it was darkening And the Bulli air was muggy.

And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far As I said I would.

@inthehouseof @for-the-love-the-north

Today, Hardy’s Tess and Angel Settled into a golden azure daydream – In their private haven by the rolling hills Of green and gold, to which the man-made Mist and fog hid them from the sunlight Settling. Was it Monet that sat outside Those car windows? Or was it the Cote d’Azur of Southern France?

It was more than mere countryside With scattered ferns and tufts of life. It was a smiling Sun that gazed upon the Scene of amber rays below. And inside, it was more than white lace And soft breaths, and sweet haze. A halo blessed their hue, with a horizon Of languorous intensity.

Diazepam and daylight daydreams Of You, and Our Love, and The checkered blue sheets on Your Single bed that You Swapped for grey when You got Your Queen, that we shared.

Valium and virtue and Victoria Who may in fact, have Violet sheets, for all I know, But I wonder if You Think of me, when You tangle Yourself in them.

Percocet and perkiness and purpose Is all a myth entwined in my Identity, which I try to regain After making Your bed, and leaving, Because You made Your bed To lie in.

Trazodone and torture and Tori, Elude me and preclude me, From all the views of Happiness, that I tugged onto With claw marks, On Your pillow.

Sarisol and sonnets and so-longs And Victoria’s Secrets All through the songs You played in the car, That I sung along to, saying Someday soon, it will be The Same.

Fluoxetine and floating and fuck You, Goodbye to all of That on a Friday, In a freezing four wall fortress - Fighting for Your heart again, In the first place You ever Fell in Love.

Tea leaves that read ‘forget about it’. Golden tea and yellow wine and Vintage lamps and Brain damage. A woman I could have been in Rose silk and stilettos With only half a glass Smiling. The shade and light and Veuve chiquot And lavender in Risotto - From a year or two ago.

I’m the water lost in The sand when the wave Hits the shore And the rest returns to sea. My life is loving The afternoon But being in constant Twilight And having the light Slip, Slip away.