My key-ring is a sterling silver bear, a tiny clock dial his stomach,
It’s an odd Weasley world of locks and tick tocks,
a fascinating timer to going away and coming back.
It’s an interesting fact, like the ones they compile in colourful middle school books,
comic sans in jagged edged yellow boxes,
exclamation mark ended did you know my favourite cup is mud red saying cats love milk,
or how fluorescent shades make me twisty mountain drive queasy.
You’ve left this thick paperback book, earmarked and cunningly dog-eared on its spine,
I can glance around this room and win the invisible treasure hunt of all your bullet lists;
the pillow covers will always be a shade of blue,
the secret safe for cheque books and passports is the worn squash racquet case on the doornail.
Let’s play this serendipity game of truth and dare,
tell me my favourite font, or whether I like chandeliers.
There are mounds of glittering pirate loot in your mind,
if you could tell me now, please,
bears and pillow covers are decisive,
and I need to know if this is a lie.
2:33 pm • 20 November 2012 • 4 notes
It’s been seven years of resentful Mondays.
You’re standing on the pavement, squinting at apartment numbers,
how easily my eyes superimpose upon you your youth,
cleverly blurring, sharpening, the black formals turning into faded sneakers,
In a whirl, the face turns, the same persistent cowlick and embarassing feminine eyelashes,
the city snaps playfully, a lazy canine, these streets are an adventure again.
5:22 pm • 4 September 2012 • 7 notes
old and new cartons, stiff and frayed, peeling brown tape crust on their edges,
I delve into this familiar and forgotten pile of neatly stacked books,
A painted box set of fairytales, the pages of Little Mermaid scrawled with two triangle hearts of five year old dexterity,
How enticing it is to be land ahoy with the pulse of this glorious city,
and how vital it is to ease into scales and fins again,
deep sea glitters of ma’s deep embrace,
resurface, yes, and tread lightly far from the shore and beyond,
but the salt seashell sounds of the sea, just like these doodled illustrations and birthday novels, and the missing of swimming,
this home shall wait for you again.
11:18 pm • 1 September 2012 • 6 notes
Carefully tapping the spoon on the edge of the cup,
a perfect glimmering quantity of ‘everything will be all right’,
swiped in a subtle semicircle along its rims, a slow happy dripping of contentment.
A concerned novice physician,
seeing sun spots in the room from your feverish eyes,
the bursts of temperature between the cold soaked towel and the heat on your skin,
like a delicious hot and cold dessert to devour, random like moody cravings for anything decadent and cocoa,
in sickness and in health, I do.
10:51 pm • 29 August 2012 • 3 notes
misstessmer replied to your post: If I had a boat,
this is glorious :) love it!
Thank you for the kind words :)
8:21 pm • 25 August 2012
If I had a boat,
I would tell you that we’ll row to the little island off the shore,
and insist we take sandwiches,
wishing they were mushroom with garlic and melted cheese.
If I had a boat,
and we were in it together,
I would madly invent an excuse for it to capsize,
to drench ourselves in the salt and cold of the water,
and to struggle and laugh in the endless depths below us, clutching and groping our way onto the wood again.
With wrangled clothes and weed in our hair, no ice would be left for breaking, and I would triumph over the sunset classic of how well we row this boat together let’s do this forever, and make my own boat romance,
two people and delicious sandwiches fell into the water,
and how nice it would be to do that more often.
8:07 pm • 23 August 2012 • 8 notes
I have written you many lasts,
inhaling beautiful wordplay and endings each time you’re near.
The summer smoky space between us will fall on paper lovingly, abrasion on the sly. I will grow weary of standing alone, brushing the mosaic of our stories,
missing the flecks of colour on my left wrist, my favourite art from another’s right.
We were working on glass, weren’t we?
I see it clearly now. You have long crept away to the other side, and all the pictures I write will take away with them a little more of your view. A scrawling calligraphy is amiss from this musical mosaic of letters and conversation; I cannot make all the right mistakes and blots on this canvas by myself.
Waiting would mean looking aside and seeing again the taunting outline of air without you, the thought of your absence fighting for its denied space in my childish mind.
Oh, how weary of standing alone,
and how in love with this mosaic of our stories.
10:52 pm • 22 August 2012 • 8 notes
You are in my way, and I cannot reach you.
I cannot love you back,
if you drown me in all of yours -
But I have loved you so much,
That I have drowned in mine.
8:26 pm • 20 August 2012 • 13 notes