so much is lost
to wrong time and place
too soon
too late
and parallels
that can never touch
of proximity
or mutual



Back before
you let the rope
around my heart go slack
there was always something
to pull me forward
no matter the distance
or effort

Now it lies limp and frayed
as my intentions
I loop its weight
around my arm
and pick at loose threads
I carry their shapeless form
with no destination
And wonder at the strength
they once had united
and their frailty
in the absence of tension

prompt: calm


Relenting I fall
into thoughts of you
like heady sleep
A fitful
from which I awake


I’ll take a thousand punches
Kick my dignity into the trenches
I’ll drag my heart along
taught barbed wire fences
Just to get snagged enough
to spit words at the wounds
And rub some life into my my senses

that time of day

There is a certain time of day
when the need
to bridge the distance
is greater
than the need to breathe
And straddling it
even partly in your presence
for an instant
brings the world to a halt
and resets the rhythm again

There is a certain time of day
when the only way
to satiate the rising hunger
is to grasp onto you
and knead you into a form
that can withstand
the thrashes
of my frustration
at this limited feast

It is that time of day
when I wish I had not
enough amounted experience
to know all possible outcomes
of each moment
as it unfolds
and feel the disappointment
lurking behind all endings

nothing more

you want nothing

I want more

yet side by side

we sit and insist

in making a universe


of nothing more

than this

in between


The truth lies
neither here nor there
But in the spaces between
how are you and fine
and the hands
that pass a napkin
or drop a card

In the anticipation between
the message sent and the reply
or the coin toss and the landing

Or it may lie in wait
on that spot on the floor
to which we turn
when we greet

Let us leave it where we left it
Tangled in the creases
of the sheets we couldn’t straighten
And in the amends
we wove with threads
too weak to withstand
the change of season

It has nothing to tell us
we don’t already know

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What did I dream
before I saw you?
What lines did my hands long to trace
before they learned the contours from your ear to your wrist
by heart?
What flavours did my mouth crave when it watered
before it tasted you?
It must have all been equally out of reach, because
I don’t remember wanting any less,
nor being any happier.

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skin like silk?


Who has ever written,
or cared to read,
of the desire to touch skin
so dry and thin,
as the finest silk always is,
it snags on your fingertips
and bunches up
as you caress it,
threatening to tear
and unveil
the fragile frame
over which it drapes?

(perhaps comedians and cynics or some senseless romantic hovering over a death bed)

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