turn of the season

cold brew weather


leather and your grandad’s coat

extra cushions in the car

wait for the dark to watch the bats swarm

they dance for you

even now

the shadow people

remind me you are near

what a naked eye cannot see

a heart of bleeding welts can feel

my skin aches for your touch

the morning frost lingers on your side of the bed

your pillow


left that way deliberately



fingering the flame on a burning candle

slightly out of control

awaiting pain

disappointed when it doesn’t hurt

try again nothing too bad

try again

scorch marks on fingertips – thinking:

eyebrows raised and bespoke coffee

slid across cracking wooden bench

a regular now

a guest before

we have been so many people in so many different lives

dangerous game

exciting results



comfort in a shared silence

the same knowledge

negation of words

fuck context

fuck me



and in the beauty of choice

i can refuse all that doesn’t serve me

your projection

your ambivalence

so excuse the time

the precious time

handcrafted finite effort

i will continue to devote my romanticism to

i hope one day for your sake

you understand your own vices

pick apart your anxiety

so you stop undoing others

who try their earnest to love unconditionally



affinity formed in the decade before

i am tasked to find the lull

through which i prove the willingness

to bleed for you


i am water

you are clutching at me

forced close the space between knuckle and palm

it is 06:41

the alpenglow

shepherd’s warning

seeps into pink undertones resting on Egyptian cotton

a soul crafted by Goethe

harbour the superlative of fact



it’s just around the corner

so for now

i’ll take an extra 5 minutes

to feel crisp sheets envelop my still-sleepy limbs

forfeit the illusion of punctuality

i’ll puncture my last chocolate square

rip it and watch it’s melting fibres

as i hand it to you

sharing my banal joy this time

i spend an extra day’s work

on a weekend escape

a romantic excursion

i should be saving

but it’s always around the corner

so instead

we drink pinot noir wildly out of our price range

and dance selfishly

to A Sunday Kind of Love



it starts with bottom shelf merlot

victims to the cost of living,


tentatively adding adjectives

possessive my

my darling

experiments of a hand heavy with

a stolen glance on a pace beginning to match

my darling

take my hand

i will be yours

my darling

for as long as our unspoken decision lasts



unstick from your thighs

barefoot on carpet

shaking legs to the bathroom

the innocuous hum under flickering ochre lights

pinpricks of sweat saunter down foreheads

wet, wanting lips

rose red

open mouth

panting like a hound

like paper, tears through skin

the prickling of blue and purple begins to settle on the surface of your slick aching skin

slow blinking

you’re shaking

through the fly screen

nod to creatures of these small hours

bow heads to moths seeking the same climax found



i pine to be on your drunk mind

the way i meander from underside to hip

the 03:34 call

another one

and another

i remind you of your mother

the way she feels her flowers

checking their growth

spine on the bathroom tile

cold and willing

brunette eyes

looking for a pronounced meaning

reading in-between the lines

on my face

left from retort of quick wit

waiting for endorsement

of all i suspect

tone of arms threatens to disrupt all that is


and our demise begins.