curled over the wall, slick
with paint, lines surgical
and precise, tracking epithets
of deeds and at least one life.

your sighs were waiting
in counter-top novels, point
dead riverbeds where we
followed footfalls, each
an end, nothing but gratitude
overflowing and finding
a bed covered in books.

words are theories in forgettable lands
you drew pictures all about memory



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.


room more canvas than walls,
more painting  than paint.

walls peppered with memories
of exes, pristine tickets
for festivals and gigs,
bottle of port half-drained
hidden beneath the bed.

scraps of cloth all covered
in colour – painter’s mishaps,
smudges of flower girls
little creatures, and you.