All our ghosts.

All our ghosts roam
the night-
soak out sleeping hours
and count to eighty one.

These wasteful dreams
amplified by seasons
left alone
are all too much and
come too soon.

Think.

Do you think I could maybe crawl into your mouth and hide amongst your teeth?
I think it would be the safest place.

I don’t trust myself with the things I might say. I’ve been known to lash out.
I’ve been told that I should think before I speak, but I think that they underestimate just how much thinking I’ve been doing.
I’ve been told that I should, perhaps, reassess.

Well.

You know what I think?

I think that you’ve said quite enough.

Ever.

With the emptiness of
every night,
ever
she speaks;
Words torn from
the headlines,
and the minds
of the mindless.

She.

“No more,” she says,
“No more”
and she means it-
features hard-set
in a face
too gentle for this.
We were young.
We were stupid
(although not often
in that order),
and while we sat
around, waiting-
watching the tired
world go by,
we missed our chances.
We missed so much.
She says my name,
the vowels slip
from her lips and
I watch her
watch me.
I love her, but
I won’t tomorrow.

Small harms.

Severe- separated;
we’ve all had out vices
our small harms
delayed-
so much slower than usual.
What will the days make us?

Y’know, it’s all a little
late for that now.

I wonder so much about
(you scare me sometimes)
pretty, small, things
spinning out of control-
the rhythm of you,
the still-empty moments.

Good.

You listen and you
listen good, girl-
this isn’t about
your pigheaded refusal to
react. It’s about the
heat of the moment
and your wilful disobedience.
It’s the sins of your
father.
So,
what do you have to say for yourself?

Clarity begins at home.

The electric sting
of minds made up-
the snapping of opinion-
the endless instant,
perfect in its clarity;
the bare bones of interaction.

Not.

It isn’t because
my head is pounding
on repeat like a cover band.
It’s not sorrow or self pity, no matter
what your girlfriends say.
It’s not a simple matter
of timing, or a fucking
solar eclipse
or stars
or fate;

It’s the silence of you.
The silence we’ll never share
without my heart skipping a beat-

or stopping altogether.

Ode.

It’s quiet, And as
hollow as our smiles;
all teeth and no joy.

All the words that concern you
are meaningless now
and they snap at our tongues
as they emerge.

There’s nothing left of you
except the void that bears your name.

Fragment.

Fragments, slivers
of that which will send you blind-
Mistrust and a terror
that lasts for ages.
Hours, creeping,
syrupy evenings-
the best of intentions
will not save us now.
Clockwork, rusting
drinking our sin
traces of sincerity
keep us guessing.
Lust, sudden and
inappropriate-
a symptom
of bad lighting and
too much time alone.
Fragments, pieces
of what we will leave behind
once this longing is over.