the twentieth tuesday


twenty weeks. with eyes like sunlight I
walk the streets through town, beaming. my
head rests next to your shoulder, a tiptoed
kiss against your cheek.

in the b'n'b we laughed at our diets through
doritoes kisses and indian meals, peshwari
sickly sweet. communicating through secret
smiles forgetting they couldn't understand,
your hand hidden beneath the table.

winter swept and dusted under duvets, i am
able to see you better. in the park stretching
out under blue skies, we read books and wear
shorts below a cloudless, bright-toothed grin.
in your sunglass reflection i see myself.

twenty weeks. ending sentences with endless
kisses that make my text messages seem cross-
stitched. before love and endless adoration
found a platform, i am yours in cafes, trains
and country paths. yours in spring adventures,
holding hands and endless laughs

oh l'amore

i am writing a lot of shit, loved-up poetry.

colours

you found me wretched as the night before,
with clear water and a blank aspirin pout.
and we swapped stories under the gaze of an
owl. hungover, i thought I’d like to know you.

when life before was watercolour, we're
acrylic. thick strokes and hard lines. i stick
snapfish shots to my walls. each awkward
pose is poetry, and my hand at your throat.

on grey days we make our own smudged
sketches. spread out under canvass, i'm
washed out from staring at a morning-white
ceiling, two people and one blue towel.

you're yellow, or orange. i group people by
colours and you're brighter than the others,
twin green rain coats on overlapping
schedules. i am joining the dots of each day

to make weeks, months. each tuesday
cooking in the kitchen, lingering on each
kiss. fuelled by clichés, under the gaze of an
owl. clutching my crooked, crimson heart.

intense

bodies

separated by noses, this is the closest i can get
to you without osmosis. we fall asleep eye to eye.

on the day they killed the terrorist, ten years
of history sealed itself in a body bag. unaware,
under the glow of the laptop i looked up at you
and cried, feeling the weights of time lift.

fifth july two thousand and nine

just found this. i can't remember writing this poem, but it happened. sometimes i forget that it happened, but i remembered last week when i was applying for a job and saw his name. asshole. i've been learning a lot in manchester, i realise.

necessary

yesterday you defriended me on facebook

for writing on my blog that you had ‘obvious intentions’,

forgetting the way i protested as you moved your hand

between my thighs.

i gave up trying

to explain that i didn’t know you

as you positioned me in the darkness,

and thought only of next morning’s bus ride home.