When I’m with you I forget what it was I’d decided to order when we were at the back of the queue. Now we’re at the front; it’s my turn and they’re waiting. But you just flashed that smile at me, so now I’m standing here, dazed and swaying slightly, with only one thing on my mind:
I forget the passcode to my phone and the PIN number for my card. My hand hovers over the keypad as an assortment of mystifying symbols – are they digits? – dance provocatively in front of me, daring me to touch them and get it wrong. …
The heaviness upon my shoulders
is not the weight of the world;
it’s this head of mine.
It’s splitting like a conker:
bursting with ideas above my station,
riddled with problems that aren’t mine to solve,
strained from reaching out for more
and aching with a love that has been chained.
I press my scalp and palms into the Earth
and send my two soles skywards.
Now, I’m just a girl – inverted;
pulling my stomach in,
opening my legs,
diverting your attention.
What I have, outside
and what I do is a distraction:
If the sky puts on a sparkling dress tonight it’s because she chose it, not because you wished it.
Each sweet constellation you discover; beauty spots upon your lover. Each freckle on her back comes into view. But they’re not for you, those stars.
The stars don’t always shine
because the sky isn’t always in the mood.
On nights they do appear
her head is clear
and she dazzles from dusk ‘til dawn.
You fell at first sight;
drunk on her starlight.
With her you’ll fall in love again each night
though you had sworn
She’s so bright. …
Magic is born out of everyday moments. Even the wildest fantasies, conjured by the most creative imaginations, are rooted in the sights, sounds and sensations of real life.
Storytelling requires us to dive deep into the world from which we are writing – real or imagined – and somehow persuade our readers to jump in with us. We can’t just let them dip a toe and wander off after a paragraph or two. …
I will walk for miles while you’re asleep
to find some land to keep
and plant a forest of kisses
on each cheek,
so when you wake, you’ll see
I grew for you,
this land of plenty.
Never feel your hands are empty;
you’ll always have mine to hold
that’s what mothers do.
I will climb a mountain while you dream
to find a crystal stream
and stoop to fill myself
to quench your thirst,
so when you wake, you’ll see
pure liquid love
and drink from me.
You’ll never miss a drop, until;
one day you’re not a baby, you’re
my boy. …
We sit in a jar at the back of my shelf;
kept sealed for years,
saved for “one day.”
and I know that I never will
prize off the lid —
I can’t open it,
can I throw it away.
I preserve this gift — our love, closed up —
and I re-read the label
(the handwriting is mine).
I know hope will be wasted,
but it’s still in date.
there is still time.
You are on her side, in her hemisphere,
where you live by day
and you love by night.
But I wonder about your jar of Us.
Is the lid still stuck? …