now, you are a friend,old anxiety, present,breathing out, lightly.
A haiku for all those tissues I have sneezed into this week. Enjoy!
On the days that I do not love you my love looks nothing like love. In fact, it looks much like not quite the opposite but an in between state: A half-working key, an almost soundless note pressed against my finger-tips.
“No one cycles in London” “Move your cycle” “I’d like to ride a penny-farthing on the road” “That penny-farthing is as big as me; its wheel is as big as my face.” “Is that where Trafalgar Square is?” (looking at a map in the middle of a bike lane) “Is that where Somerset House is?”Continue reading “Things I’ve heard people say in London”
Love, my dearest friend,listen to my laboured breaths,how sweet do they sound, against your chest.
I have noted in these past few nights,that Confidence is not found in the usual places;it is not found inside another personbetween cracks and small openings,between the rust and rubble ofsomeone’s dampened heart,or broken art,but rather amongLs: leather, lipstick and lingerie — and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,but rather becauseContinue reading “the L illusion”
If I am to remember,what does that truly mean? Does it mean to remember the guns fired,to watch the scarlet blood gleam,or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,and hold them in high esteem? If I am to remember,what am I to forget?For it is difficult to say I am sorry,when we haveContinue reading “Remember”