LILIACEAE

I STOP KNOWING THE SOUND OF YOUR VOICE

  and I stop knowing how to write, stop knowing how to fill the hole that you left, how to fill the ache of your fingers, millimetres from neck and warm, oh, so warm, your tie dangled across chest and your eyes, so close, so secret, so secret in the way secret is where you can almost taste the closeness and you never want it to stop and I never wanted you to stop, but where are we? Charlotte…

I claim the highest mountain in the state and make bruises of my knees through the dark. I follow the stars above, the constellations of every moment I have ever existed in, and make it to the top by sunrise, where I stop to look around at everything that is and I smile because, like everything in this moment and everything ever; I am and I always will be.

I have closed my eyes to similar sights and I walk among smoked streets I do not know in what I hope is the direction of blue rivers running wild with will and sunsets collided into portraits on canvas once clear. Charlotte Griffiths

AND RAIN AND RAIN AND RAIN

I cannot hide, any longer, that this, here, was the last time I really felt something and I can pretend it’s alright but lonely night is still only your name and I don’t fear death because I know there’s nothing else left for me. Charlotte Griffiths

I stand on ledge of tallest building I could find and wait for you to join me, join hands beneath lone stars and shadowed clouds and endlessness, enter death knowing there was only last moment, spent forever, spent together, our secret. Charlotte Griffiths

lost for words I want to write a poem for you, but there are not enough galaxies in the sky to form dreams close enough to your burning shades of pink. You walk in, strut in, stabbing thorns grow from my fingers and somehow, I’m falling into them and out of this tiny box of sanity I’ve been holding close. You make sweet music for my ears and I am here, vulnerable, overly passionate once again.…

nostalgic nonsense. Soft, cool air in shattered lungs, mist floating delicately in the opening of forest, silence surrounding solemn souls, secret sadness simmering simultaneously about in the cold. Picturesque frost grows upon branches of a figure that once sheltered copious life, the gentle breath of a deer, confused, woken early to a cool winter brooding despondency. I take our your black…

meaningless Eight stars shine over the river and count the hours that I’ve wasted being honest to myself and as I zoom in on the smallest, I notice how delicately it flickers and how dangerously it burns. I keep saying I’m scared of abandonment but it’s you that I’m afraid of, my lungs never breathed as weakly as they do in your gaze and as sadly as they do in the follow of your grip. I’m not…

In the infidelity of a moonless, revealing night, the blackened world rose, crawling upward the shaking ladder. Found itself boundless shapeless loved and confused, until – only seconds left – the remainder welcomed red linen which manufactured perfectly putrid memories and, at last, she slept. 

pink shirt worn over-the-top tight, tough wrists and eyes closed shut I kiss the hair on your fingers, trailing hopefully up to your forehead. silver-lining smile tightens angelically, lifts up bright, bodacious, beautiful nose and he’s denied its magnificence every time but he forgets its consumption of every piece, every pinch, it has touched. handsome hello’s and soft chuckles float down over…

Looming landscapes define duplicitous enemies;     dreams follow regressions of apologetic   answers and paint systematic     stories of a reality much           farther      than my own. Should centralised proclamations collude to the    greater advantages, then the    technicolour anticipation was      surely       proven wrong.  So when exemplified evasions of apathetic     honesty flows…

Don’t say I’m lonely when the rhythm of syllables called patterns of every shade, angle, symbol and note. You made up decades of false idols, fake nose jobs, forged opinions; fraudulent self-love, just as every girl you denounced before. And here you are screaming comfort of complacency, of “confidence”, of cockiness, with green and wiry tongues, somehow telling me I am the one that has done any…

he kept saying I was a poet and that I was the talent, but my talent was only ever in melancholy and the skills I had to tell it, well that and the sickness inside that told me to see. I’ve thrown eight hundred tantrums all up and last week I tried to gut the television from the outside in; I couldn’t stand the news and the journalists and the advertisements and the shame of it all. since, I’ve…