The sculptor

One corner of my soul
is pinned to the hour we
last spoke, and the
other to the moving
present and I am
stretched so thin
I cast no shadow. Your
silence washes the
colour out of my days
and pain hollows me
hour by hour
like a sculptor carving
a bowl.

Dawn

Another dawn.
I love the dawn
sunrise, birdsong
a fresh beginnning.
Approached from the right side
from the side of sleep,
of night,
the awakening of the body,
the quickening of the pulse,
a transformation and a beginning
the dawn is a beautiful thing.
But
approached from wakefulness
from nights weary journey
into the darkness of days
with a body worn
from worry
another dawn is
another failure.

Moving on

I don’t really know what marriage means, but if I’m married to anyone, I’m married to you. One person can’t own another, but I know I belong to you. Whatever love means, whatever ball of need and want and fear and joy and giving and taking that is, it comes from and goes back to that place in my heart where you are.
So now I’m supposed to move on, carrying you with me and leaving the best part of me behind with you. Move on – to where and to what, and why? With you in every step and every breath, with you wound around each rib. With you seeping into every crevice in my mind, in places I don’t even know exist. With every touch an echo of yours and every moment missing one thing. When making love feels like a memory and every time I close my eyes I see you, the way you looked when I was moving in you. Sometimes when I open my eyes too.
And with every moment of affection, when someone looks at me with loving eyes I feel I should explain: ah, you are beautiful, and you warm me, but, you see, I am deeply and secretly wed, I am taken; every part of me that is here with you is more deeply hers; all our moments are like shadows of that happiness; and on those terms – do you still want me?
Who could say yes? And so – where would I be moving on to?

Reasons

I found her. Stumbled across her in the dark. The one I was supposed to find.  The one who made it all make sense.  The missing piece of the puzzle.  It’s a puzzle that has hundreds of missing pieces but with her there none of the others matter.  With her jagged edges and   bloodstains and the madness in her eyes and the sadness in her heart she is perfect.  With her there the roaring in my ears stops and my heart stops tearing apart. With her there there is always a reason.  I was never supposed to find her and I was always supposed to find her. It was impossible but she found me.  She found me and the world changed.

And then she got scared.  I was just one missing piece and all the hundreds of other missing pieces mattered more. She closed the door on me, she drew up the drawbridge and closed me out and the thing is, I didn’t get out in time and I didn’t want to get out.  Everything about me that matters is still in there, deaf and dumb and blind but there, with her, and my senses and guts and pain and logic are all out here.  Lost, with no reasons, because all the reasons are behind that wall. So I stumble around lost, and there are no reasons

Starlight

You fell into my atmosphere
like a shooting star and came
to rest inside my ribs. Nestled
under my heart, and warmed me with
your glow. I didn’t know then you
were still orbiting your own dark
star, and picking up speed again
you tore a hole in me wider
than my existence. Kneeling at
a corner of the hole, with torn
arteries clenched in my fists, I
watched you receding, still the
most lovely star in my heaven,
still my only light. And then,
in darkness I slipped and fell in
to the chasm you left and
drowned in my own blood.

Mindfulness

Breathing
in this moment and
not you.
Sunrise
cool air
a funny joke
and
your absence.
Friends
laughter
a good stretch
this longing
this awful longing.
Simple pleasures
being
without you.

Messages

There’s a voice in
the heart of the flame
that’s destroying me
it’s your voice and
it tells me
you loved me
once.

The writing in
the ashes of
my life declares
“nothing else
matters”.

The night wind
makes this image
in the swirling embers
for just an instant,
on just one night:
so deeply asleep
so high in your tower
you love me still.