Teasersp

Take the upper hand, you know it's yours. This is a weakness I have never felt, terrifying moments of generosity and giving, the depths of kindness exposed like petals peeled from the core of a tightly wound flower. I don't know why I sit                                                         here, lie alone in the corners and quietly wish for someone to make my o

The moon's not full. Or if it is, it's got a dent in it. You told me to come outside and look. Maybe your hair was in your face again, and that's why you couldn't see it. Maybe wherever you were, in Bristol or Brighton or Bangkok, the moon was full, not dented. Not a half smile, or a squint-wink, a lingering tease or a sentence kissed away.  Not so unfinished as us. Not quite so almost or inbetween. "I love you like that moon," you said. 'Oh no,' I thought.

We stole some little pieces of the sun. You stole yours from heaven, but I stole mine from your girlfriend. Every cup of whiskey I drink, I use to sink the thoughts of you. Tie them to an anchor and drown them at the bottom of my memory. But every glass of wine I sip, brings me a little closer to something of you. The time we drank that year from hot mugs in the kitchen by the radiator. The smell you wore in Summer that you left at my house, and were too ashamed to come back for. Or was that me. Me that you were too ashamed to come back for. I would be. I'm too ashamed to come back for these memories. Ashamed to admit that maybe I was h

Why do I waste myself over no one? This bottle of Jack Daniels does not have arms, but bottle openers do. I do not think that I waste myself over you. I think you are just the easy answer. I think it is harder to justify this nightly row of empty bottles than it is to justify throwing them at you over and over again in my head, in a room where everything is perfect, all the book spines are the same distance from the back of the shelf, and you are wearing that black shirt. But no, in reality I throw them at shadows of nightclub rejects. Back alley glug-smash. A Christmas eve of cold commercial liquor wasted against a neglected wall. Next

I avoid praise. It makes me nervous. I think I like ornaments because they can't talk to you. I like crystal baubles because they can't look at you. And I like, silk, because although it is soft- it can't touch you unless you touch it. Better yet I like stones. Smooth, flat, cold pebbles plucked from dusty Welsh beaches. Shells from the fraying fringes of Greek coasts. If I could, I would put all these things in bottles and keep them. Little bottles. In boxes. But I can't. They are too permanent. I like flowers. They can't talk to you either. Although I suppose, in a way, they do look at you. But they don't last. They can't look at you

I can see where you have bitten your lip, because there is a tiny scab there, as small as the lights on an aeroplane, placed up in the night sky- a liar amongst stars. You, are controversial. Dangerous, almost. You wear your hair in a knot, on your head. Not just at the back, but right on top. Like an onion. And little strands and clumps of it fall across your face like discarded peel or layers. When you cut the root of an onion, the fumes come out, and you begin to cry. You don't want to cry, but you begin to. And it doesn't feel like anything you can control. I hope I never cut your roots, I would hate to have you make me cry. I have in

Under her clothes, she is fairly beautiful. But to him, she is nothing short of outstanding. Every sigh, to her, is disappointment, or fatigue, or unsatiated hunger. It's falling in love with a pair of shoes, only to notice their justified price tag. It's not having correct change on the bus. To him it's her at her softest moments. To him, a sigh holds no pretence, no motives, no unspoken words. It is rapid inhale, drawn-out exhale. It is in these moments that he loves her most. First thing in the morning bed hair, the smell of her pyjamas, stray dark strands criss-crossing the lighter ones he leaves behind on the pillow. It is only when s

Tender is a silence. It's the silence that sits and sleeps across railway tracks. Uninterrupted, calm and just a little less than permanent. Tender is a lamplit walk home, through vaguely bohemian city streets, solitary or accompanied, tender is a moment all to yourself. Tender is the crows'- feet on the face of the old man as he admires the crows' feet left in the light November snow. Tender is the six year old, devastated at being four inches short of a snowman, and tender is the mother's consolation as she threads his mittens through his sleeves. Tender is the love note left on the windowsill, pressed and stuck against the condensation,