your heart wrecks itself on the shore

palm to knuckle to finger to nail to whispering caress across chin to jaw to cheek to temple to worshipping murmur of ‘my love’, yours is the map beneath my touch that leads a man blinded by sun and drowning in sand to rippling salvation. yours, your likeness i adore, yours, mine to explore, mine to chisel planes from weathered stone, from pitted rock your likeness arises. yours, palms mine to hold, mine to feather prayers and stroke psalms over gentle skin, over whorls and dunes that slot ever soft against temple, to cheek, to cup jaw and chin in faith that runneth over. 

be kind to yourself. hold your spine a little gentler, curve softly your fingers over your palm. drop your shoulders inches down, unclench your smile. 

be kind to yourself. you are so kind to everyone. heart held in hand, giving, giving, always giving. holding your hurt, your weary bones. stilling your voice, the earthquake in your soul. 

darling, didn't you know? you are allowed to be soft. you are allowed to rest. you are allowed to be you, and not what the world thinks you are. 

come, dearest heart. lay your heavy head down. rest. 

the sun still rises. tomorrow is another day but today, you deserve your kindness too.

a prayer is a question and an answer, gift-wrapped bow-tied whispering up to heaven knows where a prayer is a promise and a contract, wet ink strokes caressing hieroglyphs gleaming and a prayer is worn beads chattering all teeth no tongue thumb to index to thumbing through psalms first knees then palms last forehead pressed spine curved in query a study in signs to come.

there is a ghost in this house and she speaks with my voice

it starts with a high G, aborted

limp under the cover of the pinstripe keys i swore off for good

when she speaks rose petals spill past chapped lips

unfurls into blooming trails from stairs to door to kitchen bin

there is a ghost in my room and she stares with my eyes

ninety-nine bottles on the wall and

one shot short of in vino veritas 

if i squint with one eye shut, sea-glass ripples to the bottom

of the bottle and sirensong sighs a story

there is a ghost in my head

and she sounds like every record stuck on play

and she sounds like late nights, bus rides

and she sounds like asking, and asking,

and she sounds like echoes.

juliet and romeo certainly thought so

so did altair and vega 

and look, orpheus never did see his eurydice once more

love at first sight and true love's kiss

are bedtime stories for the broken-hearted

fool me once and that's on me

fool me twice and say goodbye 

you can't look for love amongst stars

they're dead when they reach us

look instead in wildflowers

look in yesterday's coffee mug, washed and kept

look in tonight's blanket tucked in, snug around cold feet

look in tomorrow's breakfast

he knows how you like your eggs

scrambled, fluffy with milk, cracked pepper

look in his hand in yours as you cross the road to get milk, eggs, toast

look in his hand on yours till the end.

it starts with a twisting

churning

a whirlpool of cramping with bad dinner dates for flavour

should've trusted when your gut said

honey, this one's bad news

it ends with a sinking

falling

a plunge past rollercoaster's end with pre-landing jitters

should've trusted when your gut said

darling,

run.

a million windchimes 

starsong 

small

delicate things

twinkling

they tinkle

hoofbeats strike iridescent sparks

uneven clatter the new 

old crooning lullaby

when you wake up it will be dawn

didn't they teach you glass is

breakable even 

god-breath blown and spun

when you wake up the moon has set

didn't they teach you hoofs skitter

shiver spin splay

slick artifice greased glass

when you wake up the road will end

didn't they teach you to catch

your breath, held

outstretched grasping hand

when you wake up the dream has ended

i understand i’m not being fair when the condensation-slick floor makes me slip and i want to tiptoe over the sweating rug and let my toes trace the edge as if to say, here i am. and i understand i’m not being fair when the cold folds of the sheets make a mountain of the distance between us and i want to feather my fingers over forgotten threads and curl softly into a question: where in this molehill island have you gone where i can’t follow? and yes i know i understand i’m not being fair when midnight drops cat-paw-soft and maybe it’s the flu reaching down to squeeze, gentle as a lover, something in my chest cavity and air is a scarf that snags before spooling from my mouth. but my mouth spills cough-syrup-sweet: “i understand.”

close your eyes and 

count up to ten

one

eyes closed, you wake

today your mattress is a fortress for one

two

the sheets chafe, sandpaper raw 

the blanket twisted in a mobius 

three

your skin feels soap bubble thin 

too tight and on the edge

four

honey thick sunlight drips on the window 

you are a fly in amber, sunk deep in molasses 

five

light stripes your back, your outstretched arm

sun-warm brand on your skin

six

morning rays and birdsong colliding

in a discordant swelling orchestra

seven

light creeps up in honeysuckle 

vines winding around your limbs

eight

sun-warm sheets burn your

corpse-cold hands

nine

today the room-corners pinch your skin

today the feather-down smothers you

ten

eyes open, you curl yourself smaller

your spine an unhappy question mark

close your eyes and count back down

when you open them it will be night

when you open them it’ll be alright

one year is one revolution of the earth around the sun 

march follows february follows january 

time progresses linearly

(most of the time) 

may follows april follows march 

the earth orbits around the sun

 inscribes an imperfect annual ring 

(a circle has no beginning nor end) 

(an orbit has no start and does not end) 

while time marches on, rhythm unceasing 

space realigns, ending shifting into beginning 

mark another x on your calendar 

convince yourself this is progress 

but as we make another turn, 

asymptotic to the sun 

are we spiralling to the end or 

circling back to the start?

some days your body feels 

like whispering morning fog lingering

brushing, sliding fingertips across 

windowpanes, leaving frost cold

breath(e in)

some days your head feels

like spun-sugar soap bubbles drifting

past your coral-spiked thoughts jumbled 

darting silver into bones bleached white

breath(e out)

some days your heart feels

like barnacle-encrusted anchors weighing

down jewelled daggers in rusted shut

groaning chest with seawater they

breath(e in)

some days the pressure 

like the whole ocean rests atop

is the tension in elastic bands 

stretched to saltwater taffy lengths you can

touch lines knotting nothing weighty

breath(e out)

some days the sting

like the sharp salty tang clogging your

fingertips is the beading

paper-cut welling rubies 

adorning labyrinth whorls you can

touch the red-thread tethering

macabre line-art to your wrists

B R E A T H E

today my body feels

like the boarding gate in a foreign country

faintly i hear

at the end of a tunnel i see, 

for a moment, watery weak sunlight

and burbling voices

echo

and i am not here

and i am not here.

B R E A T H E

inhale. 

you squint at matchstick figures in the distance 

eyes stinging, you blink 

‘the west wind brings not spring, 

but dry thunder and lightning.’

exhale. 

your hooked finger stretches 

the collar of your polyester tee 

picking at a thread, you breathe 

breath thready in the high mountain air forced 

through the needle eye of your throat 

take a breath; 

grit rough in your eyes, 

heat dry on your skin 

you taste ashes rising up your throat 

(ashes, ashes, we all fall down) 

tonight we toast 

the lost, the weary, the

complete cynic at age 

twenty-three

you know how 

drinking is

really

a lot more 

like breaking

down than 

you know

you know who

drinks to excess - 

desperate broken-hearts

bravado desperado

pushing pushed past

the brink you think

you know

quarter-bottle down - nearly

quarter-bottle left

one shot, two

three shots - floor

you press your fingers to 

glow-in-the-dark plastic 

you wonder if 

the cool edges 

the barely-there light 

is that how dying stars feel

(twinkle twinkle little star)

you wedge a nail under

geometric starfish limbs

the blu-tac strands trail plaster

pried off the barnacle wall

you wonder if this

is how beached starfishes feel

(how i wonder what you are)

when you were little you thought

stars in the night-sky were drawn

on with a silver marker

one continuous motion broken

into five glimmering points

(up above the world so high)

when you grew up you realised

stars in the night-sky were impossibly

far

burning spheres dwindling to

the same nothing of the universe

(like a diamond in the sky)

soon you will realise

stars are only born from 

the deaths of other stars

coalescing from the wreckage of 

the remains of

(twinkle twinkle little star)

soon you will realise

you won’t realise when a star has died

its dying light travels

and reaches us 

(how i wonder what you are)

we are dancing in the moonlight starlight

post-death.

don't make a pet of a wandering wolf

how soft his pelt 

how kind his eyes

don’t give all your trust to a wandering wolf

how gentle his paws 

how friendly his grin 

don’t spend your life with a wandering wolf 

he’ll howl and 

cavort and 

play fetch with you 

he’ll roll in the grass  

he’ll invite belly rubs 

don’t pour all your soul into that wandering wolf 

he’ll look sad and endearing  

whining at your front door

don’t give your heart to that wandering wolf 

he’ll grip it oh so gently 

in his jaws 

caressing 

pulsing muscle with glinting canines 

don’t give your heart to a wandering wolf 

he’ll swallow it like 

he swallows the sun 

  that pelt; 

the velvet-night 

           those eyes; 

the last glinting stars

              those paws; 

the falling sky 

  that grin; 

the waning silver moon-sliver 

quick and deep,

he’ll swallow you.