twisted moments
grasp your roots
and turn, creaking
life out of dying bark.

clear moon reflected
waters, washing
blackened memories.


your fingertips bristle,
pin-pricked with potential,
grasping at the train
of a thought flowing past,
till you’re left half-remembering
a name and a face you’d rather not.


I hope;

 to turn tempting fingertips drawn against my temples
 waiting for her touch – it sparks and changes everything
 I’ve ever loved – it’s naught beneath the grasp of her.

I love

 all the masks I donned in fast-paced attempts to please
 craving release in the form of a softly curving pair of lips
 to smile and cut away the pain like a surgeon’s knife.

You’ll know
 all the love I can bring to bear
 in all the memories I have
 but you don’t.