My fingers draw lines on skin that has none,
navigating a road not taken by a woman before,
where men have lost their way journeying over hills,
through valleys, on a path without signposts.
It is a landscape that offers no clues, just a silent
beauty that lingers long after I have conquered.

My hands are on the control panel
I could press stop or even pause
But I pass it to her hoping she knows
That I want the decision to be hers.

I have nothing clever to say,
no great statement to make,
if it is all meant to be then
I guess I've made my bed.
Life is moving at a pace
beyond my shortening reach,
I no longer care to judge or
or take the expected leap
of a faith long gone and a
life lived outside the norm.

There's a quietness in the room,
as the cat slinks her way across
my bed and just for a moment
you stir. Slow breaths permeating
the bed covers and touching my skin,
make it almost impossible not to slip
beneath and give a 'morning kiss', but
upon seeing your sleeping face, I resist.

Your eye, your ear, a part
of your nose, runs along the
lines of the sky and the rocky
seashore. It is how I see you
from where I sit, so close I
can touch you with my lips.

I sit, always watching

the wind push clouds

past my window.

Whispered company clings,

but not the trees

for fear of being uprooted.

(If I allowed them in...)

I shake it off,

look around the room

and smile-we are all friends.

Red seeps into black,

a wall of silence slips away.

Outside the rain falls

creating the beat by which

the droplets are formed

from the throws of our love-making.

The rain stops and sunshine
pours through the open window

and we lay still again.

You lay on top of me, above me.
Smiling down, I feel your skin
upon mine, and feel the moisture
that comes with it between my legs.
Control, with you, is not an option,
I lose it all at the very sight-
of you, my lover.

Aromas travel through the

house as she cooks a

favourite meal for me.

We have shared our food,

our life for seven years,

three of them free from

the troubles of years before.

Always a passionate affair,

now it has entered the quiet

time, where we can appreciate

each other's quirks and rejoice

in the labour of our ways.

I've taken another look,
physically walked to the mirror
and tracing the web of lines
around my left eye decide...

...You are right

I have thought too much of
what others think, I am not my
own person, as I have claimed.
You have set me straight.

She stepped inside
                    my skin
Left her footprints in
                    my brain matter
Crawled through what she left of
                    my heart muscle
Before settling in the pit of
                    my stomach
To remind me, I'm human.

It's a mirage, I must be

here alone,

Just me and the haze that
hangs above the stone.
In the distance, bobbing out at
sea, a lone boat finding solidarity
with me.
Then suddenly, like a hero from
the war field,
Rising up over the hill, a Rastafarian-
he's been fishin'.
And little by little, they all appear
right next to me,
or very near, to experience all Brighton
has to give:
The sun, the beach and a lesson on how
to live.

THE DAY

I

 Gently, the foot falls

and then the sounds

of blind walking to

the bathroom. The result-

a stubbed toe-has

become a ritual. There's

no jumping up and down or

shouting about such injury,

just the sounds of peeing,

the flush of the loo, hands

being washed, the hobble 

back to bed. Within minutes,

there is only the sound of quiet

breathing and the return to sleep.

II

The kettle boils, two spoons of

coffee with soya milk, tea bag in 

the other-just a dash of cold

water-to start the day.

There's Facebook and Twitter,

some marmalade on toast-we 

won't mention the amount of butter,

or the whiskers licking it off with delight.

III

Done with the exchange of

friends and followers, the

shower is mentioned and 

is followed by a song,

another of our rituals.

IV

A walk on the beach, more often 

than not, is the case these days.

A place to talk out the issues,

 relax and enjoy the company,

before a dash to work, with

most of the coffee from the

kitchen in tow. Tweets and texts

pass break-times throughout

the day, while both strive individually

to find our own way.

V

Come ten o' clock, it's food

and favourite box sets, the

comfort of knowing and wanting

still with us yet.

I'm having difficulty leaving it all behind.  Do I get up and walk or do I stay like I am now, my body so atune to the position its sitting in that even the slightest movement makes my heart pump a little stronger and a loathing anticipation take over.  I'm nothing, if not a contradiction.

Teenage voices carry on the breeze, which squeezes its way through my 'just open the right amount' windows.  They're from the school just across the road, hidden beyond a great stone wall.  If it weren't for the wall, I could not live here.  Everything behind it speaks of failure and of a past and future I no longer wish to contemplate.

Follow the wall, then the dash of coloured houses to the sea and I begin to breathe.  I can see the vastness of blue, an escape, if only I could make it there from where I am right now.  The promise of its healing drives me to move, stretch my legs, across the carpeted floor.  It is also blue and I imagine the sensation of it around me, as I dive for the first time, uninhibited by my fears, into its dark undertones.

Yet here I am, unmoved, unable to move, as static as I've ever been.  I can not say I am unhappy.  This is a happy place I inhabit.  But, as the days and months unfold, I must find my footing or get lost in the trample of everyone else's.

Last night, my wife and I
had sex. Not an unusual
occurence, you understand,
but on this occasion, as
the scent of our love-
making filled the room, I
turned to her directly and said
'If you were a perfume,
I'd wear you'

A sight so new to me
I could spend hours
watching her

(in her
denims and converse,
walking the way she
does)

Those eyes,

(like seeing sunlit sky
through a looking glass)

could make me weep for want

(of one more touch)

of her.

I watched the sea lift her skirts,
flirting with all who came to see,
the beauty beneath finally revealed,
breathtaking in its chemistry.

I have said little of importance in days now.
It has become apparent that without her voice,
I have none. It has vacated me, left me void, so
that all I am are the reflections of what other people
see. These fragments form a looking glass that depicts
me as I am, a broken body, a fractured soul.

The cracks in the wall of the heart,
expose the human flesh beneath.
Each piece, weighed and measured,
gives a fractured image of a tested love.

The Story*

She told me the story over some Earl Grey
and Jaffa cakes. The tea and cakes were nothing
special, but on that day the air seemed a little heavy
and she sighed often, before finally taking a sip.

So began the story of a summer from her teens,
of sun, sand and uncensored first love, played out to
the sounds of Joan Baez and disapproving families,
before its tragic and sudden end.

I listened, surprised by my own emotion, and when
I left that day, the tea and cakes remained tragically
untouched on the table and I understood-
after 30 years, I had finally met my mother.



*Inspired by another's story and the potential damage
of long held family secrets.

Reflecting within myself-
I get lost in a

feeling of longing that 

is undoubtedly tinged

with the open wound of

my own unwavering guilt.

Like shadow puppets, the

arresting images play
upon my mind and fill
my heart with a wantful ache.

The puppets still, but
guilt and want make
only prisoners of
the mind-
I am a prisoner.

   

Now she merely mumbles, but what of the
past nights' scenes of domestic violation.
She battered her shores with such force
that the sailless boats tolled their bells
in anticipation of a death.
As these words hit the page, she raises
a gentle roar, a reminder of her strength,
but also her control.
I watch her warily, not just because of
her power, but her beauty.