Sometimes its like my heart is like a bag of ..
the dust is like the plume of cement dust that lingers in the air, stiff
unsure what to do next
Grey without much colour, but coarse with texture,
hoarse- like a raw, aching lump in my throat, that I cannot bare,
let alone clear.
Numb Like Columbine,
The sheet, I clumsily, half heartily draw back in the early hours of the three or four o’clock am,
and Wonder If I peer close enough at your stagnant chin will it become unhinged?
will your stubble pierce through your chin.
Like a kaleidescope of prickles of brown and ginger hairs.
Your breath not so sublte.
You breathe as if pushing yourself up a 45 degree incline.
How I wish to meet you on the Precipice.
I know I won’t survive.
Take me where the water is still.
To where you need be breathless, causeless, nothing be hard pressed.
I am brindle, you are beautiful, simple.