Moments Captured

Without the sight of the moon, the darkness isolates. There is no freedom in the expanse that is set before my feet. I step and I know not where. Without the shine of a reflection, there is not light. In a window, I see my face and the face of those behind me. I see the reflection of all behind me -- I cannot breathe. For if I breathe, I haze even more what I cannot see. I cannot condense, there is not enough space, the darkness holds me back. Behind holds me forth. I cannot move. Paralysed in my seatbelt, I am held, I am fetal, I am blind. Waiting for the light of the moon.

If we can only communicate through mobile phones, If when I hear your voice it is followed by a crackle or if the only way to see your face is when it is frozen on a screen. If the only way I can touch you is by touching myself, then are we together? Are we two becoming one? Because I am one. But I am alone. And you are one. But you are alone. What are we doing? We are simply waiting. I'm forgetting how to count anymore.

I am neither happy with my life. Nor am I sad. It is just something that must be done at the moment. Get up, do, sleep. Repeat. Just get on with it. I don't think I want to do this. I just am.

Written on a Paris-Malaga flight (9th February 2015)

Okay, so, I have never written a love poem. I mean, I have written lots of poems about love. But never a love poem. I have written of the desperate desire, of the aches and pains and tears that fall like rain, of love. How, one day, an umbrella will open and create a cool shade, a safe haven, beneath a cascade of heat. And I will bask in its dark. And how love is not heat but deep, impenetrable ice. Burning to touch, Scalding and calm. And I thought I could predict love, imagine its touch. But I was wrong. It's the line between your white and red skin in a steaming bath. It's rain droplets speeding across a car window as you're sat, cheering for a drop to win. It's a step back, it's taking it all in, it's bending down and looking close. It's a silent gasp in the eyes, it's laughing when you're sad, crying when you're happy. It's hearing the sweetest sound in the loudest snore. And eating gourmet food, from a tin. It's in each of us. It's in everything. Asking if we're serious when we write these things. Asking why do we need to write these things. It's here. It's out there. There is no love poem. It has no point, no matter. It just is.

Trying to think of all things that I am passionate about resulted in me staring out the window watching a spider whisk a fly in a cocooned web as coolly as one would whisk eggs on a Sunday morning. Then I thought of all my Sunday mornings. I sat back, realised I'm passionate about nothing important. Just, the little things. The spider. The fly. I'm the kid whose list of things to do before they die consists of '54. Eat Chinese take-away from one of those snazzy boxes' and '66. Spend all day in bed'. It's not that it isn't exciting, it's just not exactly the bigger picture. But to me, that's happiness. Yesterday, I realised that ‘I am going’ and ‘I am coming’ in Spanish is the same phrase and I found it so profound that I had to stop everything only to decide whether it was sheer stupidity or something wholly romantic. People don't seem to look at something small and understand how it can be so big. Every woman admires a tall man but I look at the man whose shirt is a little creased and wonders why he didn't have the time to iron it. I don't even notice height. I'm not a fan of the bigger picture, I like to look in the corners.  You asked to make me make you feel my passion. I have very little. But the little things don’t need an applauding audience, they simply need someone to stop and see.

Thanks, dad.

I am everything else. 

Just so they can understand. Just so they can see. See you. For all I see.

I am full of dread but for reasons much better than, dear old, 13.

If this is unhealthy, then I am happy to let the heart attack  catch me as I fall.

But now, um, I'm not so sure. I feel wrapped-- some would say trapped-- in sticky. Icky. Gooey. And you're there, on the other side of foil continuously unfolding, devouring a favourite treat, buying more.  Through the use of pennies, a 1p coin that holds pounds.

I don't have a Rolex, or a silk scarf, or a bank balance that exceeds double figures (or is even in the positive for that matter...) I don't have this house that was desperate to appear on Grand Designs with a McCloud drooling in the background. Nor cars that only know that  odd new car smell. But when my dad, with all his trouble in life, calls me from across waters, across international costs. Just to wish me luck -- I've gotta be quick, Chloe -- by luck, I am the richest girl.

Now, I know,  that me and milk aren't the best of friends. But, I love its family. The cheese. The milkshakes. The cream. The ice-cream. As I sit, devouring, licking, tasting, I know that hours later I'll be spent. I'll be sore. I'm allergic. But it's worth it. We kill ourselves with what we love. Naivety froths atop mochaurity. And I, I'll sit and drink you.

It may be because I’ve got 226 words on a page where, not long ago, I had none. Or I’ve found a job that I can actually see myself doing (for once). Or, it may be nothing at all. Just me looking at a brightness that reminds me of the starts and the stars.

I’ve become so thin now, my necklace has crawled in a small divot between collar-bones. I feel as small as that divot. I’m in the library and I watch the trees blow in the wind. Together. I’ve never felt more sad (alone). There’s something about these new desks, the way the corners are split, that makes me want to curl up on one. Safe. Lay and sleep amongst the ink that stains my hand because I’m not right, I’m all left. Empty. I eat a cinnamon whirl to make me feel whole and I realise that you have to work to get to the good bit. Munch, munch, munch. Like life, pushing and punishing until, oft, it’s gone. And you feel bloated, having eaten too much. Then you die. Uncomfortable. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know how it will end. All I know is that I couldn’t hold this in. I wrote this on my phone so it could be erased and I could forget. But I can’t forget this. Paper is permanent. Even with wrinkles, it breathes. I breathe. Fighting the urge to join the trees. I breathe. We’re all supposed to be star dust, right? I simply feel ash.

I'm suppose to be watching the game, but instead I'm watching you. (the backs of your earlobes, in fact) as my hearts beats red and blue for you.