Vignette #1

This is where I'd write stories about you - here, in my diary, where you can't read it. It's about you and how good times would waver away silently in the summer heat. It will be like you, fragile and unexpectedly small. 

Shall we begin?

Better than you would have

Train tracks decrepit

worn and lost for 

lust and hunger which

feed starving men 

on hold for hours 

losing life, losing time;

so much for love

and the touch of one

but hopelessness stays

unavoidable and piercing

like sun on skin

peeling and burnt 

red and raw

worse than salt

in an open wound.

Driving

Because it matters more that I am back
behind the wheel
driving on roads
with potholes and cracks,
road barriers in place
and then we talk till dusk
when the world turns away
rolls over and sleeps
and we keep driving
on roads with
potholes and cracks.
road barriers in place
because it matters more
that I am back
behind the wheel
and I'll get us there
I promise you, I will.

Songs Intertwined

Nothing's as it was before

I don't dictate how the future comes and goes. It just changes as it likes and unfolds in ways I don't expect it to.

I know I won't see you again

Have I had things my way, there would have been a lot more conversations about how things fell and disintegrated in our hands. And there would have been more understanding...on my part.

the feelings that we used to know

It's all gone now, right? It's all gone.

Different Sides

Farewells on Platform 6

[standing on Platform 6, for the train bound for Portsmouth Harbour]

Perhaps there was something
left unsaid
as you boarded the train
to somewhere not far away.
The farewells squandered
by the rush of time and quick footsteps
on platforms. Concrete, brick,
cement, metal all play unwitting games
on the mind as time moves too
quickly. It moves like
it has a mind of its own
forgetting how life swallows
friends, family
love.
And so a wave goodbye
is slowly forgotten
as she is left on the platform
that slowly disappears behind a bend
and in time it all goes,
memories dissolving into pasts
dying like roses in winter
and then withering away
silently into nothing.
And in your hand you hold
that last goodbye
which was destined to die
almost like how you did
on a train bound for nowhere.

Tempestuous