One Hundred Sunsets

I could spend

one hundred sunsets

unstitching all the mystery

in you

– finding answers

to all my questions –

and still never grow tired

of the way

each thread

feels between my fingers;

then all that would be

left to do

is stitch you back together,

with my own strings

twisting through –

and then beyond

– into our own unknown,

and off

into the sunrise.

Wilderness

Honestly,

adventure is not really

my course –

except with you,

when

walking in the wilderness

feels just like

coming home.

Pressure

I say the words

‘no pressure’ to you

as though

I really mean it –

and that’s because I do;

but still

I can’t quite help but

hold your hand so tightly

that it seems as if

I’m trying to make diamonds

in the space

between our fingers.

Night Politics

That night we debated,

like politicians,

about who should take the lead

and whether or not

there was room for two

in your corner of the world.

It sounds

far more exciting

than discussing who

should cuddle up to whom,

and whether or not

one might make a habit

of squeezing the other

out of the bed,

but really

it was more thrilling

than the closest-fought race,

and our parties formed a majority

around the fact

that it didn’t matter,

just as long

as we were together.

Enjoy the View

So much of this thing

has been

waiting,

and yet it feels

nothing like a late departure,

an unreliable acquaintance,

a stuck lift

on the top floor of many.

No –

this waiting is

listening to every note,

tasting every crum,

breathing in

until your lungs

are fit to burst.

This thing is

stitching on some endless thread,

and waiting to wait,

then wait some more,

so that the end

might hold it’s breath

here too,

and allow us a little longer

to stand in our box

and enjoy the view

from the lofty heights

of our very own top floor.

Moment

Nothing here

is further away

than a moment

barely missed.

Nobody Panic – A Haiku

Nobody panic;

it’s not really happening,

this time anyway.

Tremors

All

the best laid plans

are met with

tremors,

which move the land

beneath your feet,

and

send you to the ground.

Stockholm

Though you may not

have fallen in love

with your captor,

a prisoner so you are,

and that is hardly better

though at least it is not worse.

Let Us Breathe

Allow us

this moment,

please –

and just

wait;

let us breathe

for a second;

just wait.

Can You Hear Me?

There ticks and tocks –

a time here,

when doors are

softly closing

(and yet with a bang)

at the bridge of your nose

and the tips of your toes,

whereupon

you realise

that perhaps

you have not stood

in the room where you thought

you had stood;

rather you have

misunderstood,

and now all that is left

to do

is throw

bricks and rocks

into the quiet,

and say:

I have stood on this bridge,

with something to say,

and teetered unwell

from your changing winds,

and now is the time

to softly close doors

of one’s own,

(or not so soft)

and shout against

the shouting of the clock –

I have something to say;

can you hear me?

A Bite Of

Like a bite

of the sweetest fruit –

the freshest

– he stays there on those lips,

for days.

Leap All At Once

Take

a leap

of faith;

there is nothing

afterwards

except air,

to carry you

away

to safety

before your skin

touches down,

all at once.

Simply Do

The simplest thing to do

is just to do it

and let it simply be done.

Bad Ideas

This is a bad idea;

against all advice;

against a wall,

where bad ideas

feel good.

Wanderer

Where did

you

come from

o’

quiet wanderer?

Unexpected – A Haiku

This is a surprise –

an unexpected pleasure:

your appearance here.

Reunited

Would that we were

reunited,

across a table

in a garden

somewhere,

with sun and breeze,

and no need of

anything but our time

to sustain us.

Anything But Quiet

When at last

we learn to speak,

our orders are to listen,

when our souls

are anything but quiet

and we have already begun

our ascent

to the top of our bellowing hill,

ready to stretch out our arms

and call with full lungs

‘I am here’,

for as many years as we might,

until our echoes are quiet

even to us.

Just a Thought of You

Not that you would want

to hear it,

but I had a thought today –

just fleeting:

a thought of you;

not that you would want

to hear it

anyway.

Waiting, or Tens Across the Board

Waiting

is an art form;:

it is

the balance beam

of everyday;

be ready to

fall

at any moment,

or hold on –

tens across the board.

To Care Less

Truly not being able

to care less

Is an undeniable art form;

someone

should put your response

in a gallery –

then

everyone could stare at it

and wonder

how on earth

it got here in the first place.

When The Moon Sits Quietly

When the moon

sits quietly

in the daytime sky,

a little round breath of chalk,

and the sun

blazes on the

other side,

it is like an almost meeting

of two would-be lovers,

kept apart

by a vast blue sea,

never quite coming together,

only

sharing glances

and wishing,

on hidden stars,

for more.

Fine and Unbothered

Fine and

Understandable;

Clear, and now we

Know, that

Your thoughts

On the matter are made of

Unbothered things.

Affronted

Why

are you not more

affronted – more

offended

– that this has

ended,

why not?

Ignoring It – A Haiku

All of my passive

aggression is wasted by

you ignoring it.

Waters Unconcerned

Sometimes rocks

need make way for river,

lest they drown,

the waters unconcerned.

I Could Shout

I could – I suppose –

shout at you,

but my voice is already hoarse;

my throat,

already sore

from all the burning words

I have swallowed

back down

for the sake of your sensitive ears.

I Can No Longer

The words were carefully chosen:

I can offer you this

no more.

Perhaps you heard

something else,

because the reply you wrote

read simply:

Services

no longer required.

Out Loud

Tiny pixels

make huge cowards

of us all –

some more than others,

perhaps.

We hide behind them,

saying only what we can’t

bear to speak

out loud,

communicating

by the grace

of the light

that stands behind them.