the soft wind dances
between my waiting fingers
your absence biting
You chatter on, words with no meaning
floating endlessly from your mouth.
Can’t you see the tears forming
behind this tired smile. I wait to be alone.
Then in a blink I’m drowning.
Cold kitchen floor
harsh stone pierce
long for soft warm sand
running in the summer
Hole in my jeans. Patched up with left over material, the colour slightly off. It fixed them for a while, though now my finger slips through the seams. Picking at the fabric in the quiet times. Ready to unravel, expose what’s beneath.
Early morning, winter air. I walk to your house. The familiar route a comfort. I pull my coat tight, dig my hands into my pockets. Walk past homes as they wake, lights flicking on. Kettles boiling. Days beginning.
It used to be I had somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Not anymore. Not since that day. The ice glistens on the pavements as I make my way, slipping on the black. Danger we don’t see.
I stop at the corner. Your house is sat in darkness. A shadow beneath the glowing street light. Today I don’t linger but turn into the biting wind.
I’d be back tomorrow. I knew the way.
night in the morning
dark as Whitby jet, I long
for the winter sea