Ever been so close to someone
and I mean a breath away, so you can hear hers
that there’s not a touch of doubt in your
her
mind that you were made for each other?
Me neither
How about feeling like an old couple in young love?
Getting the point like no one else
has
and laughing it out?
Nope
Finding that she was
is
with someone who is not you
and who knows it, too
but will still be?
Hah, no
And biting your tongue
like she did your lip for
a second with her kiss
sigh
No, that never has happened
Not to me.
Because that would hurt enough to choke like a noose.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Stretch
(Muddy shoes on the porch,
plates stacked by the sink, the oven still a touch warm)
If you breathe in
– you're on her bed, stretched out, tired –
if you breathe in, it's undeniably her
she's in the air, sorta
Your skin remembers, too
you could trace the moves she ran across your arms
your chest, like ley lines
and what could be a perfect indent
where she's tucked herself into your arms
until she's close in
so you can barely breathe out
in the best possible way
And with the lights low
she's staring right back at you
staring right back at her
lights low, air warm
and a smile that you
yeah
you could love that smile
but, you think too much.
you do
so, when she drops to the bed
scrambles up
with that smile
it's time to let that head of yours go
and really, honestly, breathe in
(the oven has cooled, and you should go
but she pulls you back to bed)
to her.
plates stacked by the sink, the oven still a touch warm)
If you breathe in
– you're on her bed, stretched out, tired –
if you breathe in, it's undeniably her
she's in the air, sorta
Your skin remembers, too
you could trace the moves she ran across your arms
your chest, like ley lines
and what could be a perfect indent
where she's tucked herself into your arms
until she's close in
so you can barely breathe out
in the best possible way
And with the lights low
she's staring right back at you
staring right back at her
lights low, air warm
and a smile that you
yeah
you could love that smile
but, you think too much.
you do
so, when she drops to the bed
scrambles up
with that smile
it's time to let that head of yours go
and really, honestly, breathe in
(the oven has cooled, and you should go
but she pulls you back to bed)
to her.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Snug
The curtains don't draw all the way
and light spills out at the edges
traced, sharp lines around windows
that welcome for her in this rain
Both feel older than they are
he from the longest hours
sat under harsh office strips
she from dancing
beaming
framed by stage spots
So, through the door
the soft yellow glow
filtered by the drawn linen
is a relief, a breath out
the flicker of the television
flitting across white walls
barely distracts
She's small enough
that the climb across and up onto him
- couch cushions warm, shifting under their weight -
takes time
and he pushes her hair aside as she sinks her head to his chest
moves his hand to her hip to balance her
They talk more than they need
perhaps because this shouldn't be enough
surely?
Heartbeats tapping out a safe rhythm
no thought of life outside the panes
There will be chores tonight
friends' melancholy and another drink
and his head with unlit fuses, as ever
But she shifts a little
and she is quiet and close
and he forgets himself
and light spills out at the edges
traced, sharp lines around windows
that welcome for her in this rain
Both feel older than they are
he from the longest hours
sat under harsh office strips
she from dancing
beaming
framed by stage spots
So, through the door
the soft yellow glow
filtered by the drawn linen
is a relief, a breath out
the flicker of the television
flitting across white walls
barely distracts
She's small enough
that the climb across and up onto him
- couch cushions warm, shifting under their weight -
takes time
and he pushes her hair aside as she sinks her head to his chest
moves his hand to her hip to balance her
They talk more than they need
perhaps because this shouldn't be enough
surely?
Heartbeats tapping out a safe rhythm
no thought of life outside the panes
There will be chores tonight
friends' melancholy and another drink
and his head with unlit fuses, as ever
But she shifts a little
and she is quiet and close
and he forgets himself
Kiss
Dusk is one of those words that only makes sense tonight
At no other time could palid grey clutch the heart to life
He believes that, as ghosts of halos flare against cold night
warm breath
She feels petite under the test of his hands
running as they do from the nape of her neck to the small of her back
heavy as they glide and drawing shivers
icebergs of intent
There is purpose here too
Rocking back onto the heel of her flats
she feels him take the weight
supporting her completely
holding her for a kiss
Itself, it's soft
his lips brushing hers
their tongues touch tagging
as pauses for caught breaths
leave their mouths atoms apart
to breathe her in
breathe him out
When his hand is at her hair
running down to her cheek
she goes still, breathing shaky.as he takes her bottom lip gently
between his teeth
Sighing as she feels her own smile tight against the grip
Her skin tingles
moreso as he draws back
setting her balance on the snow
to step away and take her in
Moreso as she retreats a step to the wall
half to support
half to calm the disbelief
to make this tangible, a memory
Her arms drop to her sides
hands splayed against cool brick work
She stares, a little breathless
confident that he will be confident
and laughs, a thrill of shock, as he approaches
her eyes warm as they close to meet him again
Breath and cares evapourate
and as he pulls firmly at her hair
a hard-enough hint of frustration
she leans closer, deeper in to him
and the two are lost to this dusk
one steam of two breaths
At no other time could palid grey clutch the heart to life
He believes that, as ghosts of halos flare against cold night
warm breath
She feels petite under the test of his hands
running as they do from the nape of her neck to the small of her back
heavy as they glide and drawing shivers
icebergs of intent
There is purpose here too
Rocking back onto the heel of her flats
she feels him take the weight
supporting her completely
holding her for a kiss
Itself, it's soft
his lips brushing hers
their tongues touch tagging
as pauses for caught breaths
leave their mouths atoms apart
to breathe her in
breathe him out
When his hand is at her hair
running down to her cheek
she goes still, breathing shaky.as he takes her bottom lip gently
between his teeth
Sighing as she feels her own smile tight against the grip
Her skin tingles
moreso as he draws back
setting her balance on the snow
to step away and take her in
Moreso as she retreats a step to the wall
half to support
half to calm the disbelief
to make this tangible, a memory
Her arms drop to her sides
hands splayed against cool brick work
She stares, a little breathless
confident that he will be confident
and laughs, a thrill of shock, as he approaches
her eyes warm as they close to meet him again
Breath and cares evapourate
and as he pulls firmly at her hair
a hard-enough hint of frustration
she leans closer, deeper in to him
and the two are lost to this dusk
one steam of two breaths
Back by 4
You had told her before about pools of light
how once, one friend less from pains in chests
you had slept in sun stretching through trees
Bungy cords of heat flattening like honey across bare grass
and leaving something of the harsh glare in your eyes
only somehow softer; the smallest solar flare
flashes of a wave goodbye
Now, with autumn pirouetting in the air
heady warmth in colour alone
and summer left etching initials on misted windows
you find yourself there again
Her hand is small in yours, fingers entwined
urgent at their leisure, fiercely accepting
but the winter coat feels out of season
leaves her maybe miles away
and, true, you’ve been unsettled that maybe
maybe
she doesn’t want her hand in yours
like there’s a band on your chest, your heart, tight
Maybe she knows it, feels it too
because as she slides the coat from her shoulders
and it rolls off her back like water, like a breath out
she leaves herself bare
shedding barriers like the butterflies that, later
she’ll tell you she had when you met
She finds your hand on her other side
tugs at it with her own, pulls your arm closer in
until you’re her duvet, her man
it’s light-years from dry mouths
licking lips for first kisses
and it says something else
truly now, we’re close
Here, again, are patchworks of light and shade
colouring in cold winter breath with ochre
hard ground with olive
air with electricity
She’s been anxious, she’s said
which for everything feels so strange
with leaves dropping like rain
and breaths caught for a kiss
you’re almost sure when you open your eyes
that trees will be stripped bare
frost will litter the ground
and sighs will billow out in white
But she’s there, telling you that you’re looking good, today
the sky season-streaked with sparks and comet trails
genuinely, sincerely warm
Anxious?
As she walks away, you want to grab her
tell her that for real, now
you know just how okay it’s going to be
but as she leaves the park and slips her coat back on
less a shield from you, more a replacement in your absence
you realise, so quickly
that maybe she already knows
how once, one friend less from pains in chests
you had slept in sun stretching through trees
Bungy cords of heat flattening like honey across bare grass
and leaving something of the harsh glare in your eyes
only somehow softer; the smallest solar flare
flashes of a wave goodbye
Now, with autumn pirouetting in the air
heady warmth in colour alone
and summer left etching initials on misted windows
you find yourself there again
Her hand is small in yours, fingers entwined
urgent at their leisure, fiercely accepting
but the winter coat feels out of season
leaves her maybe miles away
and, true, you’ve been unsettled that maybe
maybe
she doesn’t want her hand in yours
like there’s a band on your chest, your heart, tight
Maybe she knows it, feels it too
because as she slides the coat from her shoulders
and it rolls off her back like water, like a breath out
she leaves herself bare
shedding barriers like the butterflies that, later
she’ll tell you she had when you met
She finds your hand on her other side
tugs at it with her own, pulls your arm closer in
until you’re her duvet, her man
it’s light-years from dry mouths
licking lips for first kisses
and it says something else
truly now, we’re close
Here, again, are patchworks of light and shade
colouring in cold winter breath with ochre
hard ground with olive
air with electricity
She’s been anxious, she’s said
which for everything feels so strange
with leaves dropping like rain
and breaths caught for a kiss
you’re almost sure when you open your eyes
that trees will be stripped bare
frost will litter the ground
and sighs will billow out in white
But she’s there, telling you that you’re looking good, today
the sky season-streaked with sparks and comet trails
genuinely, sincerely warm
Anxious?
As she walks away, you want to grab her
tell her that for real, now
you know just how okay it’s going to be
but as she leaves the park and slips her coat back on
less a shield from you, more a replacement in your absence
you realise, so quickly
that maybe she already knows
Brighton
When he finally does wake, he realises how hot the room has become. Without furniture or even curtains to cast shade, the sun has hit through the panel windows, forming a fracture of heat across the wooden floor. A towel, a Pilates mat, a small blanket and a pillow have been surprising allies in sleeping, and although it’s only maybe been four hours, he’s rested enough. Shower goes on, shower goes off.
The phone, as always, bears witness to the nation’s Friday night, text after text, a tiny funeral pyre of money, sense and best intentions slowly sparking up as every sleepy head makes sure they’re still relatively healthy, relatively hassle-free and relatively alive. All it will take is one mini statement, one missed call from a lover that could have been or one dash to the bathroom, but right now, on sacred Saturday mornings, we go through our motions.
Approached by bus, Brighton’s high street is covered in white sunlight; the paving reaching up and almost coming free, it feels elevated, suckling the skies for dry heat. It looks astonishingly like a flat San Francisco this morning, and for a second he closes his eyes and remembers screaming down into Santalito off the Gate, freewheeling and laughing down a devil’s decline.
He leaves the bus and waits for the next one to get him home. With a vague timetable proving unhelpful, he sits down and finally thinks about the night before. He grins.
The phone, as always, bears witness to the nation’s Friday night, text after text, a tiny funeral pyre of money, sense and best intentions slowly sparking up as every sleepy head makes sure they’re still relatively healthy, relatively hassle-free and relatively alive. All it will take is one mini statement, one missed call from a lover that could have been or one dash to the bathroom, but right now, on sacred Saturday mornings, we go through our motions.
Approached by bus, Brighton’s high street is covered in white sunlight; the paving reaching up and almost coming free, it feels elevated, suckling the skies for dry heat. It looks astonishingly like a flat San Francisco this morning, and for a second he closes his eyes and remembers screaming down into Santalito off the Gate, freewheeling and laughing down a devil’s decline.
He leaves the bus and waits for the next one to get him home. With a vague timetable proving unhelpful, he sits down and finally thinks about the night before. He grins.
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