it was near the river,
when we heard thunder,
echo of a broken sky.

i smudged the colours
on your neck, blurred
those painted edges
while jotting highlights
to your eyes – wince
and sit, glancing down
at water popping up
all along the river.

you sat with me
while you ran away.


the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.


She tucked a blue tress behind her ear
and eyed the lamplights flickering overhead,
letting the wind wash over her fingertips
electrifying chlorophyll veins and sparking
nerves, jolting memories of rain and tempest
out of the darkness of her heart.

“Curtained Sunlight”

It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.