The Least Important Person in the Room / To Bet Against Myself

If one hundred people

gather together,

the odds are stacked

on feeling like

the least important person

in the room –

not that I’d like to

bet against myself.

If we stand alone

together

in that room,

you would think that,

surely

it’s finally my turn

to experience

the top of the list –

and yet,

if I were to bet

against myself

I know for certain that

I’d win

(and then I lose).

One of Us is Missing His Legs

One of us is a runner

missing his legs;

one of us is a commuter

missing an underground train

when the next will be along

in just seconds –

so not really missing at all.

One of us is loving something;

one of us is doing something

almost like loving –

but not really loving at all.

The Fact Is I Do

Colours are facts,

and I know them;

maths is all facts

which add up;

science has facts,

and it’s easy to show them –

but how do I know I’m in love?

The fact is,

it’s just that

I do.

Runner Up

I am the runner up,

which wouldn’t be so bad,

except

we seem to be running

in different directions,

so you’re in first position

and,

even if I got there first,

winning backwards

is actually just

losing.

False Start (More Than Once)

Forever a false start –

the promise

of a thrilling race,

with an end of celebration;

instead,

I step

before the gun goes off

(more than once)

and am

sent down the tunnel;

a lonely one-man team,

while you relay on

without me.

Never To Be King

This is the life

of the second in-line;

the one who is

never to be King –

at least,

not in your world.

I’ll wait in my place,

until you’re ready

to wheel me out –

or, in fact,

until you remember

I am here

at all.

Forever the Silver Medalist

I am forever

the lost silver medalist;

a forgotten second place.

Stuck between

your starter’s pistol

and the finish line,

where I find –

once again

– that you are not waiting.

Tick, Tick, Panic

First, second,

eighth –

at least.

There is little use

believing in the weekdays:

seven

is simply a guess,

and one that is far too short.

It would be easier,

to think of a clock

as hypothetical:

between midnights

they have hidden extra hours,

and an alarm

of anxious ticking

which sits somewhere around

now and then

and later,

like an unwelcome sunset,

Tick, tick,

panic;

find a name for that day

after Sunday.

Nightmare of You

I dreamt of being

short

of breath –

no, not short,

but void –

and woke to find my bed

was full

of empty lungs;

my dream full of the same.

Thinking for a moment,

I realised

the dream I tried to grip

contained your grip

upon my throat;

a dream of a real memory –

five seconds short of breath,

made for recalling

five years of being

in the grip

of the

nightmare of you.

The Richest Man

You spend all my money

by leaving on lights,

feeling the cold,

and being forever hungry.

But the truth is,

I am the richest man

in the world.

Nothing But Joy

My second job,

keeping you warm,

pays

nothing at all,

but joy.

One Gift

When the bells ring,

and the people sing,

there is only one gift I need;

you are the best present

there could possibly be.

Sometimes a Heartbeat is Green

Most of the time, a heartbeat is red.

Sometimes, though,

it comes out green – on the days

when your stomach

feels more like a Catherine Wheel

and your feet

stand uneven on the ground.

Love, In Another Language

I wondered

if I could love you

in another language.

As it turns out,

a heartbeat

is the same

in every tongue.

Wishing on Planes

Wishing on a star

that turns out to be

an aeroplane,

is still wishing.

They can take you away;

why can’t they

grant your wish?

What if that was your wish,

all along?

Socks

At least

when you steal my socks,

like you stole my heart,

it’s like

we’re walking together,

even when we’re not.

Love Letters – Mark Two

Sometimes

I will write a love letter

to myself.

It says:

“Be kind to yourself.

Everything is OK.”

and

“Speak up.

Calm down.

Ask for the love you need.”

I hardly ever read it,

but I know what it says,

and the glimpse of my curling script

in the corner of my eye

calls out to me,

like a friend

in the distance.

It is something beautiful,

over there.

Waiting.

Like the Water

When you kiss me

on the forehead,

I could be standing

under

a waterfall,

awash with all my

feelings

and the purest joy

that in that moment

leaves nothing else behind

but the cleanest,

clearest

sense of peace,

which somehow roars

like the water.

Sometimes, At Last

Sometimes the days

feel like

a poorly-arranged

performance,

with low-quality equipment,

in a

dimly-lit room,

like:

‘Hello?

Is this thing on?‘

as I

tap-tap-tap

on the top of the microphone,

along

with the beat

of my heart,

hoping,

at last,

that you might just hear me.

This is Not Sport

Forgive me for

interrupting,

but that’s not a ball,

and this is not sport:

rather,

it’s the engine

from the centre of my chest,

and you are leaving

dents

in it,

with every aimless kick.

Love Letters

Every morning

I read a love letter

which I never had before,

and take in the words

curling soft upon the page,

finding,

thank goodness,

and at long last,

that the name signed below

is my own.

Resistance

They teach you

that a river

will take the path of least

resistance.

That seems wise, indeed:

resisting

only dries out the river,

and leaves

very little else behind.

Shouting

Shouting

must be quieter

than I thought;

you still can’t hear me,

can you?

And I’m standing right here.

Knuckles

If you fight

until your knuckles bleed,

you will find your hands

are just too sore

to grasp another,

and all you will have left

is sore hands,

empty veins,

and no one to hold.

Volcano

Do you think a volcano

feels seasick,

when it worries

that the water

has fallen

out of love with it?

Like we do,

when the touch of the

tides

we are used to

seem to be

ebbing

further away?

It certainly

gets that unbearable burning

in the middle of its chest –

why else would it erupt?

Clearly, at least,

it cries,

otherwise the water would not be

so salty,

or – in fact

– so deep.

Water wears rocks away,

and moves away from rocks.

And the volcano?

With its sickness

and its burn:

clearly it cries,

like we do.

Loud – A Haiku

I am loud, and you

have big ears, so why can’t you

hear what I’m saying.

Work Into the Closing Credits

No doubt,

they will finally see

all the work

that

goes into making you,

when

they watch you at the end,

like reading

the closing credits

of your masterpiece,

as written upon your back,

only to realise

that they have missed

every second

of your film

and,

now,

it is just too late.

Give Me a Moment

Give me,

won’t you,

a moment to breathe;

just one, two, three

seconds to stop –

the time to feel how I feel,

and put my toes in the sand,

or to get angry or sad.

Just a moment to myself,

to think,

and think nothing.

All I need is a moment –

won’t you let me.

Pages Without You

For a little while

this diary

will not make mention

of your name,

white pages

somehow feeling black

without you there

to ink my heart upon them.

We Called Out

You have never been deeper

into my soul,

than that one night,

when you found my core

and we called out together,

into the darkness.