with raw ferocity

I loved what should have frightened me

put both hands on the wound

and called the heat alive

there was no grace in it

no lesson waiting underneath

only teeth, breath, blood

and the stubborn

little pulse

that refused to leave

so I stood up ugly

still shaking

still mine

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Rolled in a bottle,

like a Djin of the sea,

I knocked against rocks

and called it travelling.

No map. No treasure.

Just a wish

gone green at the edges.

Someone found me, finally,

with wet hands

and no idea

what they’d opened.

I came out salt-mouthed,

bright-eyed,

annoyed.

You took your time,

I said.

Now listen.

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We walk away, let the world be,

let the stars keep their old arguments,

let the moon drag its silver grief

across the roofs without us.

We have carried enough weather

inside our small human ribs.

Somewhere, the dark is still expanding.

Somewhere, light is still arriving

from a place already gone.

So we go too.

Not forgiven.

Not finished.

Only moving,

with our little fire cupped

against the enormous night.

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This piece was shaped from the ‘MLYF’ prompt. It was too lush to resist.
I actually fell a wee bit in love with poetic form.

A melding of the two,

A different hue.

Neither colour surrendered.

They stood together

long enough

to become something

neither could have imagined alone.

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Salt in the old wound
the tide refuses to lie
new skin learns the sea

Low tide tells the truth
what the sea could never keep
gleams in morning light

Wind salts every face
the cliffs never ask us why
only that we stay

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There are days

when my writing resembles

a manic sprint through an existential crisis,

arms full of commas,

socks leaking doubt,

trying to outrun

a question

that has somehow

learned my address.

Then,

without ceremony,

one honest sentence

sits down next to me.

The chase ends.

Not because I won.

Because it did.

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Sometimes

I wish for impossible things.

Tuesdays that still contain you.

A telephone that rings from fifty years ago.

The certainty that every goodbye is lying.

I keep these wishes

like smooth stones at the bottom of a pocket,

too familiar

to throw away.

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