The Truth In An Endless Silence

If thought to be helpful,

the truth

would scream its name

and beg to be heard,

not only known

and left

in an endless silence

to be ignored

by all who know it.

Too Late

If too late were true,

we would be captured by time,

and you,

more than anyone,

would be a prisoner

of something longstanding,

that would be better

left in the past.

Out Loud

I would turn up

all the colours

and the sound,

to let you

shine bright

and live out loud.

Road

Herein is a lonely road.

Therein is the reason.

Letters – Two

Jacques –

Of course, my writing should be familiar by now; there are far more letters between us than even there are years. I see your tension in the scratched characters and the ink that rests in those scratches. You always were tense, not least wherein I was concerned. For my part – yes – an unenviable and unavoidable rush, but the moments I take to write to you are indeed full of feeling. That sighing you hear while you read is certainly there; it is my greatest relief to imagine you reading, and so the writing is my greatest gift.

My flourishes remain. There is pain in being apart, in being elsewhere. That said, dearest friend, there is freedom. It is bittersweet, like the tea your sister served on that long autumn night: stewed, it seemed, for hours, and all too much sugar. Do you remember? Still, it seemed appropriate: she has always been both difficult and sweet enough to make one’s teeth hurt.

There was a brief moment of grey here, and so your prediction for the weather was unexpectedly wrong. Thankfully, I happened to be reading your letter. I have found my own spot for writing which I cherish as much as you do yours. I was never permitted to sit there, even before there were letters to be written. When there was naught to be said.

There is a crack in the window of my own spot. Of that, so too naught is best to be said – a moment of weakness. Or madness.

And what of your own work? You had much to be said, of great value. Have, I am sure.

Indeed, you would love it here, as I believe I said in my first letter of this new year. Burned, I assume, all for necessity. Anyway, you need not be jealous: yours is a home. You were always pleased for me, and I for you. I am sure you recall when I came to tell you of my trip – much more than that now, of course – and you had awaited my arrival to tell me about your news. We were so often simultaneous. Your good news continues of course, insofar as your talents remain in high demand. I am making an assumption, though I am rarely wrong – much to your frustration.

By now I assume the others have been and gone? Our distance leaves so much life lived between each page. I am sure Hugo was first at the door, as always when I was not among the arrivals. I raced him there and won every time, otherwise; it would have happened more, if I were not so often already in the parlour, seated at the piano. My playing never compared to your own, of course – we call yours ‘work’ now, though that rather seems to sell it short.

The days between today and last of my knocking and playing are stretched even further apart than our letters.

Dear Marc. Yes, simple I suppose, and yet not. You do, however, make it sound like poetry. Dear Marc, I hope you are well, I know you are not, I fear you will soon be worse. Was he well, in his own way? Tell me, won’t you, so that I might at least choose the right words. He has so often hated my turns of phrase, and herein the stakes are far higher.

Worry not, I only felt it right to mention those things; you are not required to speak on them at all. Your memory was always strong – the gaps are your mind doing you a kindness. Still, it was quite some time ago, so I remember only in a haze myself. Nothing held.

Ah, dearest Saul. He remains here, as rich in character as in accent. Between our shared pages, he was better at our games than expected. I can hear you ask – no, I shall not tell him so. I remain just as competitive as when you and I were far younger. As for my soul: yes, Saul. He recalls you sometimes, and it is as though he stitches us together.

We never did write short letters.

The grey I mentioned earlier was thankfully betrayed by sun as I wrote this time. May there be much more. I remember that longest day. The sun here seems to mimic that as much as possible. You would love that, too.

You have always been so full of love.

– Lucian.

Name

Every time that name

makes its way into the air,

it is just as though

I have forgotten my own.

With My Paw Prints

You are the earth

I disturb with my paw prints.

You are the bird song

I interrupt with my words.

You are the river’s flow

I disrupt with the tips of my fingers.

You are the sunshine

I inconvenience with my body.

You are the earth

I disturb with my paw prints.

Why Bother

Why try to lift up when you

bother the air with breathing.

Instead

If not the rule was broken,

this thing instead would be.

Here the Shadows in My Chest

Here begins the

wait

for the moment

I am placed in shadows,

once again,

by your shadows,

in this turning of the earth

and rotation ’round the sun,

that,

despite its inevitability

and my expectation,

comes always as a shock

and as a darkness

in my chest.

Rules, For You

There are these rules,

only two,

and every day one is broken,

only for you.

Letters – One

Lucian –

As always, I recognised with ease the peculiar slant of your writing; each letter seemed in a rush, as you have so often been, though the letters you write do themselves seem to stretch out in a long sigh, emburdened by the depth of your feelings, as you have so often been. I will say nothing of the flourishes – you were always so embarrassed by those you expressed with your tongue and at the tips of your fingers. You need not have been.

The weather is grey, of course, and there is rain. You will recall, no doubt, the spot in which I prefer to write: little sun, even on the brighter days, just enough to watch the ink kiss the paper, wait, and dry as if as one. Darker corners have always seemed better for shedding light – that, too, you will recall. There is nothing to be said of it now, though; naught would be for the best.

I was pleased to read that your studies are proving fruitful, if burdensome. They have so taken you away. Alas.

That is to say nothing of the sites, which are perhaps made to seem more wondrous by the paper you have chosen, and the gentle hint of blue in your chosen ink. Were this not a home, my own ink might be green with envy, but I have learned to be pleased for you in all available moments.

Regarding the winter visit from the others, your memory serves you well – a further ten nights and they will knock upon the door; Hugo, I should think. Do you remember when last you did the same? The rooms were noisier then, in mostly good ways. Would that your knuckles rap this time – you would always race to the door and, though I could never see, I always assumed rolling eyes were your synchronised gift from the remainder.

Still, their visit is welcome. This will likely be Marc’s last. You should write something – anything – to him. Dear Marc. Start there.

I cannot comment on the rest, in part for the pain and in part because memory no longer serves me as it did when we would play games in the room with the largest fire. Perhaps it would have been better not to ask. Nothing held, though, in the doing or the asking.

What was the name of the young man who came to the last of our games? Saul – Soul, in his rich accent. I had always thought that his mis-name seemed perfect: he seemed to give you yours.

The window in the writing corner whistles with a heavy breeze. It is not tuneful. It should set my teeth, but it does not.

I run out of ink – only for now.

Until next we speak. May we avoid mistakes, and not each other. There may well be sun when this letter arrives.

Do you remember the sun on that longest day? Of course – so do I.

It was warm then.

– Jacques.

Better to Have Scars

Although these hands burn,

at least they are warm;

best to have blisters and scars,

than not to remember at all.

Even This Island, Even Worse Still

Even the birds

are gone

from this island;

even the plants are brown

– are unnourished.

Even the sand

grows ever cold here;

even the water

ebbs its way,

far away.

Even with all,

this land would feel lonely;

but without,

it is even worse still.

Say the Name

Say the name –

let it cut me.

Say the name

and do not see it

make me bleed.

Say the name –

I dare you;

Not that I need to;

not that it matters;

not that you see

it cut me when you

say the name –

not that you see it

make me bleed.

Say the name.

The Cracking of the Chest

In an attempt

to warm the cold hands

of the lonely,

gifts are given

by the well-meaning,

but these are not

without price,

and the bargain requires

the cracking of the chest,

followed closely by

the departure of the generous,

leaving only full hands

and an otherwise empty room.

Owed to Me / Bitter Taste

There it is,

to make me bleed:

a rare moment of expression,

owed to me

but given to another;

or perhaps I have been

wrong all along,

and that thing

is not quite as poisoned

as the bitter taste it leaves

in my mouth

has led me to believe.

Ache

Heartache and migraines.

The Understudy

If only today

I could forget,

and so could you,

and we could play lovers

on this temporary,

limited stage

that we have been building

for months

with me as the understudy,

without worrying that

the lead actor will

take to the stage

and that ultimately the curtain

will fall

and be followed by

rapturous applause

that was really

meant for me.

Suddenly

I am lightheaded;

unavoidably of course,

as I hold my breath,

waiting for you to

suddenly say goodbye;

an unexpected end.

What Then?

What if this

is all there is?

What then?

Discarded

How can I say this

in a gentle way,

when I wish

my diplomacy

could be as discarded

as you are.

Hero

Would that you

could hear

you are a hero.

I Love You So

I can hear my chest,

love beating inside;

you standing with me,

so I remember to breathe.

It Still

But it still

makes my heart beat.

Cue

I have seen you

play music.

I should have known

you could not take a cue.

Why Isn’t This?

Why doesn’t this feel

like steady ground?

Why can’t you sense

my shaking hand?

Why isn’t this holding

firm underfoot?

Why can’t you make

me feel stronger?

Which Gives

My gift

is pretence –

of excitement, of being

little-bothered,

of no green eyes looking on.

It is a gift which gives

and, in so doing,

does naught but take away.

Every gift is

a curse.

Something Useful

If I thought it might be useful

to follow the rules

and say out loud

something about your soul

which you already know to be true,

then I would.

Either it would be a waste of time,

or its usefulness doesn’t matter

and the words just need saying,

so that you might

do something about it.

Something about your soul.

The Problem With Waiting Where You Are

The problem with

waiting to

jump,

is that if you wait too long,

you are going to

miss

your chance,

because this will all be

gone,

and you will be

stuck

where you are,

when this

is where you should be,

which,

of course,

you already know.