Dear You

Dear You,

I'm exhausted from thinking about you. I have lost the will and the inclination to eat, to sleep, to dream. I am slumberless at 4am, grasping at words above my head and whisking them into sonnets you'll never hear. Your smile is an ingredient in my verse. Your laughter, sieved, acts as a base for my hopeless musings of us.

My heart still yearns for an encore; another quick glance into your world so I can take a photograph, memorise every exquisite detail, map it to my own.

I can't recall what makes your eyes shine. I fumble through memories, all are tinted with want and need. I can recall my happiness, not yours. Always so wrapped up in myself; it was never the intention.

I miss you. Rarely do you glimpse out from beneath that cloak of bravado. I want to burn it. I've seen what's underneath: there's kindness, generousity, a softness which bewitched me. I guess you can't show this to the world for fear of rejection. I wouldn't reject you.

There are many things which I want to understand: the tides, the seasons, why I'm still under your spell. The pain which you have caused me is beyond comprehension. It worries me that you don't even know that you're casting it. Why do I still chase you when there are times when you make my insides shrivel and die?

I'd like to get inside your head and wander for a while. I'd set up camp next to your ego and feed off the energy of it inflating and deflating. Ego is a cruel mistress, Alex. It blindfolded you and walked you to a place where all you could do was hurt and you revelled in it; I lost you that little bit more.

I wish that I could cast you aside but I fear that there is more to you. I need to explore but the drawbridge is up. You're fully in control, Alex, and I'm sure that you know that. You decide you want me for a while, you drop the drawbridge and I rush in, regardless. I'd convince myself that it's because I want to make you happy but truth dictates that I'd rather be used again so I can pretend that I can still feel, if only for a little while.

I don't believe that I could make you happy. I want to prove myself wrong but am lacking the drive. Maybe I don't actually want to please you, maybe I'm just doing this for selfish needs, I wish I didn't get a kick out of being your toy, but I do.

I wouldn't be this way if you hadn't bewitched me but dignity, feeling, self worth... none of this matters without you.

Love, Me.

Sometimes They're Just Words in Disarray

Our hands melded together as we lay atop that tartan rug with books unread by our sides about existentialism and days gone by, where people were tall and slender, lives perfectly formed; long fingers amidst tousled locks, wide eyed.

We didn't need a purpose. Everything we needed was right here. Our legs, illuminated; bits of ocean try to evaporate but act as cement for steadfast grains of sand. We shared some of the sea, filling the hollow between our pushed together knees. It would soon drain but, with time, the ocean will crawl to meet us, dampen our pretentious titles and refill our personal pond.

One day we'll buy a fish and it can live in our pond. It will have to be hardy and small and able to withstand the moments when his world is empty, fully in the knowledge that the tide will change and his life will be complete once more.

Let Them Eat Scribbles

I return to the coast. Ribbons of white grace the ocean blue, dance its dance and fade. Gold laces the shoreline, full of the power of the sun, sizzling soles of feet and frolicking in the breeze.

The sun beats its own rhythm. Memories of the moon seem like mirages; matters of the night only inconvenience the midsummer.

Our laughter floats on a torrent of air. With distance it curdles - the sound disintegrates but the joy remains. It is at this point that I am ecstatically happy.

The bubbles from the Pimms and lemonade are in my brain. they burst, a neuron fizzes; another thought dashes from point to point, skipping around my head with a childlike enthusiasm. The thought is probably inane but the brain enjoys its improvisation. A thought arrives from another octave - the mind beckons it in for tea and biscuits.