Your voice drifts down the phone late at night,
as smooth as the honey I pour;
into my tea,
scented and brewed for my anxiety,
so I think to myself how easy this all could be,
yet it whispers when your voice is vacant,
testing my patience,
how much can I taste it?
The guilt that sits on my tongue,
it manifests itself like smoke in a lung.
I speak without thinking,
so I can be reckless,
but the guilt hangs round my neck like a necklace,
so I’m left thinking our love will one day grow helpless
-eventually fade at noon or around breakfast,
but for now we carry train tickets in pockets from visits,
zipped in tight so the wind doesn’t take it,
as tight as the hoodie you gave me that sits at my waist,
that I tug round me,
so I can smell you and remember your taste,
we can talk about the future and...
I draw lines on the sky,
Dot-to-dot with the stars
To create a picture above
My head. I did this with the
Scars on my chest I got
When I was ten to see
If I too carried the constellations
On my skin; the Big Dipper,
Or Orion, perhaps my star sign too.
I got a telescope for Christmas one year,
So I gazed at the craters on the moon,
Though the pins came loose, so it always
Turned left, and the sky was never dark enough
To see the Milky Way like I did
When I was four, but there’s too much
Air pollution now to make out the faintest star.
I stare up at a blank canvas,
Wishing my paint brush could reach
The sky so I could decorate it with the
Brightest colours and make it beautiful once again.