She said she had brought the light, but the harder I stared through it, the less I was sure.

The warmth, the shimmer, the music held within it. It looked like light, but I knew it was a lie.

“Where did you get it?” I asked. She turned and gave her knowing smile, “From the sun, of course.”

Being able to see is such a gift, but also like the great proverb, something of a real curse.

The excitement was growing, the thought of the light returning was almost too much. That we might be able to thaw, come back from the cold, back from the doubt.

You can bathe yourself in knowledge. You can lose yourself inside a thought. The memory of heat, it crept in my mind like a snowflake, spreading out from the core, fractals forming, joyful, disarming.

But it was false, we were doomed to keep searching, keep hoping. Why was she lying, I thought, what purpose could it serve?

I want you to hold me in  your hands like a cup 

Desire me like hot tea  on a frosty day 

As I scald your lips You feel the burn and say

Stella Maris.

You are a confetti bomb About to scatter into A million tiny pieces

But I just need one to Flatter catch it  In my hair trapper

I want you to hold me in Your hands like a plug

And watch me disappear Water down the drain

Sometimes I have no idea But your lips speak their own language And reel me in like a minnow.

And the weight I carry around Lies heavy upon the cadence of my thoughts An anchor holding down. 

Your voice like a sail creaking  The wind carries you away and then feeling It’s a lie I tell myself, breathe.

You tell your story and I will mine Even though nothing is here for the listening We’ll pause for our time, in love.

The days I am away from you I count each, in every turn, this bitter shade of hues:   deadly crimson, ruby red murky violet, carmine shred. Your name wraps, jaundiced around my head. 

Purple sprouting or white as a bean? There’s nothing can be lost, where nothing has been.

And yet, I am here, always Waiting for what, my love, not? Grasping at the pigments  Waiting for your plot.

—-

“In describing any object, to specify its colours is always useful; but where colour forms a character, it becomes absolutely necessary.” P Syme, Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours

This little box of sadness, Lacquered black with three white doves. Inlaid with gold outlined, And closed shut, deadlock.

But sometimes it springs open, Releasing a silent commotion, slow motion. One memory or two, Like a capture, bled through.

No protection from darkness, My fingers laced around this awful casket. Your hand holds my other, Faithfully wishing me too, knot.

And all the while, that ugly sweater It’s fabric too closely woven, wēfter. Sticks to my skin so sodden, Remembering me - rotten, it’s rotten.

What would I do  Without a book? They smell like home A sacred nook.

A cover of calm, Defying the chaos The storms, the sadness Their words bring solace.

What would I do Without a poem? They feel like throwing An escaping bomb.

Secret, sticky, spinning Like discs unfurling and beginning. A transport to the far beyond All at-sea, my incalculable songs.

We are in our own still forest at dusk. 

She wraps herself around me like a crab. Her skin is so silky, she sinks into me, almost dissolving, absorbing, layers falling.

The light is so luminous, so soft, that you almost feel like you can touch it.

She nuzzles into my neck and whispers my name like the breeze. It’s like an encantation and I am bewitched.

I put my arms around her binding her to my chest.

And here we shall remain forever, wanting to be complete, not perfect.

I wandered off Alone  as I was ashen, grieving.

Encased myself like Lead in a husk of my choosing.

With sound retracted, Closer the sphere has no ending.

And through the transparent warp, I mouthed: “Come with me this time…”

But my breath had disappeared dissolving into itself like fire.

It’s true.  Love makes you a liar.

Waking up with a start as I hear a whisper in my ear my name on the wind.

You are the haunt, clothed but faceless, gaunt speaking hymns to the wind.

I was standing like a stall on the edge, intentions small every breath is closing in.

You drive me to the landscape an undoing place, I can’t see unable to grasp the life buoy, given.

(I’m sorry, I couldn’t find Cinders, but I wrote this instead…)

That lovely moment, When the clouds come in. A luminous grey settles, Turning the spray teal. Hush kissing on the ripples  the calm before the storm, He’ll cry;

Red brick starts to shimmer, White bouncing off the boats. A feeling that mischief is near And yet, still under cloak. Electric air like a hungry eel, the writing’s on the water, I lie;

And I imagine we are on a boat Off to find that storm. Confronting it head on, bespoke.

It’s you I’ve clung to all this time.  A force like none so, dear.

For now, we’ve drifted out  way, way beyond the fear.