It’s not a war to be won, but…

And then quite unlike the
Way in which she left,
The muse returned.

I knew I was in trouble first
When I woke to the
Thought of her
In green and navy pajamas,
Hair a golden mess,
Carrying a tray of tea and toast slices.

The dress that I saw,
A shimmering grey
A pale mint
That was no longer
Behind the shop glass but
Twirling around flower beds
Above a pair of bare feet,
Was a bad sign to be sure.

And it is now that I find myself
Lying awake deep into the night, Biting into my pillow
And cursing myself,
That I know the real battle
Has only just begun.

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We talk about things that you can’t see

Your hands are soft.
Your fingers achingly so.
They lie silently,
Motionless on either side of a vision,
Comparable to Heine’s Rhineside portrait.
In my esteem at least.

A curious porcelain mask
That wafts in front of
My eyes and drags
My thoughts
Dangerously northward.

You are far.
And I will soon be further.
Thus is life it would seem.

One could be forgiven for assuming
That this would get easier.
Thank god it doesn’t.

McFarker’s Bed

Although in the past
I may have considered myself
More of a ‘brunette’ sort of a man,
Relying solely on the rumoured
Mystery and aloofness,
Your blond offering could yet sway me.

And while I might compare it to
Rays of sunlight on a summers day,
It is perhaps more akin to the odd
Deliciously pale bowl of rice pudding
Or a pat of unsalted butter.
A soft dove’s wing with just the
Faintest hint of the sun’s glow,
If only to escape the food images.

But now the peacocks cry
Calls me out into the garden.
I will sip on tea and
Consider your complexities,
Your intricacies and your silence.

L

Of all the ways
that you could have hurt me
this one was by far
the worst.

This long lingering feeling
of doubt and insecurity.
You really had no clue.

It’s amazing that
after so many moments
when I have left you behind,
and staggered forth
into the misty morning,
you still claw at my collar
and twist at my heels
and drag me back down
this slippery slope of you.

Laura is.

Laura is
in the face of adversity.
Sitting unsteady,
head cocked,
puzzled brow.
Every atom quivering.
She’s confused.

“What a pretty picture!”
the lady dentist said.
“Ah,” I returned, “but this is no picture.
This is a puzzle for you to figure out
with your hands,
with your lips,
with your slow touch.”

“Thank you” she said.
And she took the puzzle.
And she walked away.