formats

i used to write on the back of receipts.
they crumpled, tore and wore.
i moved onto lined notebook sheets.
they stayed in a pile under a series of drawers.

now i stick to text boxes on-screen.
but sometimes i accidentally hit delete.
it’s not that i don’t want these words to be unseen.
the fact of the matter is that their incomplete.

my words don’t look the same as they did on receipts.
or feel as important as they did on those sheets.
something is lost in translation on-screen.
the fact of the matter is they probably aren’t seen.

im going back to writing on the back of receipts.
but only the things i want to lose – pain and defeats.

senses

can you pinpoint
a time, when
we became lovers?
or remember the smell of
the air, its infectious
aroma bewildering?
the sounds that
surrounded us, filling
our ears with noise.
the dry taste on
your tongue, leaving you
at a loss for words.
the way my skin
shivered, as you dragged
your fingers down my side.
if i could forget
the sight, of you
forever.

affectionate aptitude

if all that we shared, were the same colour of eyes and the desire to stand out –
why did we spend so much time arguing over who deserved to succeed?
countless nights where we threw our anger and desires against drywall and kitchen sinks.
the hope we had for each other would be our most unkind defeat.

the languages we spoke, was it really such a stretch we never understood one another –
losing our pride and meaning in translations of middlemen who wanted to see us fall.
for every small cut above we took to show just how much we truly cared.
down to the deepest secrets we told and vowed to hold close to our hearts.

the tell-tale sign when you left the car running –
your belongings in a box outside the side door.
curled up on the kitchen floor.
wishing the mistakes you made,
could be undone.

historian

they found her lifeless
body, soaking in the river along
with her books.

she kept her head
down, but her mind was always
racing with fear.

always holding on to
yesterday, never letting go of
her broken past.

you could feel her
prescence, even when she was
hiding behind tales.

i wonder about her
soul, if she ever found
peace beyond existence.

or unravelled the mystery of life, her books becoming unbound.

narrative flaw

i can feel your scars under the sheets.
they expel warmth, but keep their origins deep inside.
if i caress your skin too close, will it spill blood and truths untold?
would it hurt the fabric of your soul, if i unravelled all your covered tales?

i fear they would entrap me and feed off the sorrow of my sins.
growing in strength, sadness and the marvels of my pain.
as it rips and tears me apart, and you idly sit by wondering why.
my own self destructive insecurities will hold me to a path, letting go the troubles of my past.

if there’s a light inside me, will it succumb?
do i have a chance to redeem my soul, from my damning curiosity?
i hope that sooner than later, i’ll be free from its grips of serenity.
unless you can recall the creature and keep it inside away from my prying hands.

i never did it to cause you pain, but if i told you – would it really change anything?