Because you..

I can sit here all day. And you wouldn't come by
like you promised.
I could pray so hard each day
but you wouldn't no the difference.
Can I make a suggestion
that you do not come back and
see me anymore?
Because you obviously don't care
so why should I in return.

No Love, Honey

No love would come of us, honey
no love would come of us.
We're too rigidly strung by life
held by mere wire which bends not
to accommodate or carress
the bodies we swore each other to.

No love would come of us, honey
the dainty lights of Kensington
shine no sentimentality on us.
We're too cold to the touch
hardly living to breathe hot air
which disappears in winter's night.

No love would come of us, honey
no love at all.
And if I could undo everything
and never have met you, I would,
and live a lonesome life
never knowing at all.

Losing Sight

You're no longer tangible
in my dreams, just fragile,
weak and blurred by distance.
We were
never meant to be
this far, so out of reach,
so out of hand, so much
a stranger to each other.

I don't believe
that you can't see me
standing here
waiting to hold you again,
keep the cold away
keep you out of harm's way,
but you grow alien to the touch.
I don't know these arms
nor these veins that pulse life.

We become two almost-wholes
broken and withered
and no love to patch us up.
We become estranged
isolated from warmth,
and as we seek separate paths
we lose sight of
something that was once
tangible
to make way for something new
something we cannot yet see.

Dreams Fuck You Up

I've forgotten what it's like to write words now. It's been awhile since I've tried to speak. I don't think you could hear the real words and truths behind every gesture of goodbye. They bid farewell, truly for forever. And it's not the not turning back which becomes the haunting last touch.

It's pictured at the back of a bus with street lamps blurring in the background. It's silent and we are the only ones here, sat at the very back on the top deck. We isolate ourselves and then you talk about how things are now murky and dark. You talk about how things can't get better and how things are fading.

I then ask: "What are you saying?"

That moment of hesitation feels like a void in time where senses were heightened, waiting...and then everything falls when the words tumble out of your mouth and I know it is over.

The bus stops somewhere behind Oxford Street and I decide I will disembark before my actual destination and catch the next bus. This is my final farewell to you. I remember that one last look and the bubbling anguish as I part with you for the last time. We cry. And suddenly I find myself standing on the pavement, watching the bus disappear from sight.

The next morning, nothing feels quite real. One side of the bed is empty and I try not to occupy it to pretend you are still there. I still remember the look in your light eyes as I left you on that bus and the way your hair was ruffled, wind-blown by the strong winds. But, despite the vivid image, you are now just a withered figure in my memory and knowing that you're no longer here makes you fade even more.

Taking Melodies Through

Have you written songs which ring a melody

of ending? And if it does, would you hold a song

just for me 

or would it be lost in among the scores of others?

I'd write poems just to spell out departure

from the arms which were so familiar

and then be ready to hold them so close

to my heart, they burn

and singe the edges of my mind. And 

when I take a step back,

I'd realise I'd gone too far to ever return.

So when you compose the next song

for the ears of people you'll never meet,

think about where the melody comes from,

think about why the tune takes a downturn,

think about me

and how I live somewhere in the air

translated through you.

Find

Come find me, 

come find me again,

hidden under the veil

lying under mud and thorns

under the feet of walkers

under the dirtied ground

of scum and drugs.

Come find me,

I've been waiting for long

with the world passing behind me

slowly spinning,

dizzy with anticipation.

Letters to Myself

You know,
I've written the letters to myself,
incoherent, messy, torn.
They chart a story
that winds around my wrist
and writes out missing pieces
in my heart, in my mind
in the very body which contains
no soul. It writes out pain,
anguish and loss.

But you'll never see this.
You'll never read
my letters to myself.
Because they are broken
and incoherent and messy
and torn.
And you wouldn't understand.
You wouldn't, you wouldn't
see the words the way I do.
You wouldn't get my story.
You wouldn't see it my way.