There's a stillness__
           
               her face appears
as if from a great distance,
but her lips upon mine
we are as close as two people can be.

               
There's a stillness__

               I am alone now
a great longing remains,
but I know she will come
to be as close as two people can be.

I feel liquid, unsteady on high waters.
A bout of vertigo, today of all days?

A memory of my grandmother washing dishes-
her hands moving over and under the current
of the running water, as I struggle to hold my
balance on the footstool next to her-
pours over me, this downcast London day.

In the shadows, a hidden place.
Is there a hand that steadies me?

Future memories trail behind the hound
that barks infamous words from my
flagrant past lives and shouts-
oh ye of little faith,why not dance
upon my washed up, sodden grave.

Had I poured any more than a river of words

from a damaged soul and frayed mind,

than my still beating heart would have filled

this space with the red hue of a broken being.

As it stands, a river now flows and creates

the hills and valleys as it moves towards the

ears that sit at the mouth of its destination-

should the waves crash with rejection,

I will know my place.

There is evidence I am lost in my own head
counting crows and possibly stars in order
to pass a time of no particular importance to
anyone except possibly the flowers in the vase
with a name etched upon their fragrance.

Sitting in my tower, I have

fallen into the arms of Morpheus,

his mother having named him

needed none to conceive of him.

I am, far from the miracles of

immaculate conception, dwelling on a face

I have not encountered and a mind that

is not mine to shape nor fashion, towards

a mould of my own understanding.

Had Zeus the courage to carry out

his fury upon the son of

Night, I would not be a continuous

figure upon the scaffolding of this existence.

My own courage lacks conviction,

for I feel his sweet arms around me

and relax into them. Had I looked

outwards, I would have seen her,

gently waiting to catch me when I arrived.

She ran her fingers over the small wooden frame.She would have loved to have recaptured a memory of hours searching for just the right one, but in truth she had simply put the photo in the one most readily available. Not even new, but one discarded under her bed having worn out its use as a coffee cup mat. There was still a stain on the back to prove its previous occupation.


The photo itself was completely intact, unscathed by time, except for the dust that clung to it, protecting its inhabitant. A photo of her lover, eyes closed, bathed in the softness of an unwavering sun. She could recall the hour, the very moment she had taken it, on a warm, sunny morning in June, years before.

She was carrying coffee, two cups. She had spent the past ten minutes deciding whether to wake her lover. Then spent another five trying to make the coffee just right. What had she feared? That an unseemly cup of coffee would put an end to their passion. Was their love really so fragile? When she entered the room, she was stopped in her tracks by an overwhelming sense of longing and her feeling of fragility took on new meaning. It had rendered her incapable of moving for almost a whole minute and in that minute she decided she wanted to capture it forever. A reminder of her love, least it ever waver.

The autumn sun washed over her now. Its warmth long gone, carried away on the ends of a summer breeze. She looked at the image of dark skin and the curved body that shaped so much of her life, then walked away.


She passed through the kitchen, where the night before they had cooked together and entertained close friends. The line of empty wine bottles seemed to profess its success, for she suspected without the cloudy judgement the night may not have passed so smoothly.


She moved through the hallway, more images of their years together were visible in the corner of her eye, and her step quickened. Reaching the bedroom, she released a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. It was their cocoon, where they found each other and lay insulated from the outside world. It was distinctly theirs in colour, smell and taste. Her eyes wondered over the furniture they had bought together. The bed, the centre focus of the room, filled her now with a medley of images and emotions.


The day it was delivered, giggling and acting like children, impatient for the delivery men to leave so that they could christen it with hours long love making. Saturday mornings that carried into Sundays without either noticing, until the phone rang and friends and family demanded their attention. There were times she was amazed they were still alive, when neither food nor water had passed their lips and their bodies were drained by their incessant need to touch, to feel, to have the other. It was at those times she secretly thanked those family and friends for saving their lives, many times over.


With this came another memory and her brow furrowed and an ache returned to her heart at the thought. It was a death, of sorts, the day when the essence of what they shared died, when they looked in each other's eyes and what stared back was something unknown.

It had been raining all afternoon and she arrived home drenched, unable to tell if the streams running down her face were coming from her soaked auburn hair, her stinging eyes or her anxiety manifesting itself physically. All the way home she had imagined so many scenarios: her clothes torn to shreds or left out in the rain, maybe both, or a crazy person wielding a knife ready to put an end to her. So many possibilities played out in so many TV dramas, but she had not expected this. The apartment was silent. 

She walked into the bedroom and saw her sitting on the bed. She was just sitting there, staring at something on the floor. When she looked up, her eyes portrayed nothing. They were dark, as always and yet different.

"You're wet"

"It's raining"

"You should get a towel and dry off"

"I'm fine"

"Why?"

The sudden question thew her and she didn't know if they were still discussing the water trickling down her shirt or...

"Why?"

The other woman spoke louder now and this time her eyes, pleading and pathetic, said it all.

"I...I don't know...I..."

There was nothing she could say. She moved towards the bed and stood before her. The notion of a sinner begging forgiveness entered her mind, no doubt leftover from a catholic childhood, but she didn't want forgiveness.

The  sudden movement shocked her as she fell backwards against the wall. She felt the pounding against her chest and thought it her heart until she registered the screaming sobs and her lover's face before her now, a distorted image of the beautiful woman she was. More sounds came out, as she continued to pound her fists and then they were in an embrace. Their tears mingled, and their lips, as if commanding it, found each other and the want, the need, filled them. With it came a fierceness, and with great force she turned their bodies and held her lover against the wall. Putting her full weight upon her, she ripped open her shirt and took her nipple into her mouth, taking pleasure in the cry that it raised. Anger emanated from the other woman and in a moment of compliant madness she found herself entering her with an intensity and forcefulness she had not realised she possessed. They clawed each other's skin, as if willing to dig their way back in to each other's hearts, until her lover shuddered and cried and their energy spent, they fell to the floor. Once more, and for a long time after, the apartment was silent.

Over a year had passed. She had been forgiven. Life had continued. There was grocery shopping, working out job schedules, spending quality time together and dinner with friends. There was even sex. Meaningless sex. First, with a waitress in a bathroom stall, then with a girl she met in a coffee shop and many others. As for her relationship. They never made love. They rarely made full eye contact. She realised, at those times when they did, that what stared back at her was someone she did not recognise, until she realised that that someone was her own reflection in her former lover's eyes. They were broken. At least one of them had to acknowledge it.


She looked around the bedroom again. This time she could not envisage it as the cocoon that kept them safe, but rather one from which she needed to break free. She placed a firm hold around the handle of the case that sat inside the door and lifting it walked out of the room.


Back in the living room she reached out and held the small, wooden frame. She had taken the photo in a moment of overwhelming emotion, yet she could see none of it now. It was just another image of a time no longer with them. It was no longer hers to have, nor did she want it. She placed it back on the shelf and walked out the door without a glance backwards.

She walks among my thoughts

throughout the day so that

my conscious working hours are filled

with embarrassing mishaps.

She sleeps upon my written words

so delicate and frail that I dare not press

the keys too hard for fear of losing her among

the passages of my meandering mind.

She hides beyond my spoken words

seeking little attention

except for on those occasions

when she desires me most.

the birds are singing and the cat sits by her side having one of her several daily baths while all she feels are the thoughts she's having building up to such a crescendo that she knows in just a while the world itself will fall silent flowing over the slight breeze that now pours through the open veranda door seeking solace from the evening sun which still burns in the clear blue sky.

She takes a deep breath...

you are in her mind's eye playing a tune that she wants to recognise but as the notes linger in the air she concedes she does not know its name but longs to place her lips upon those notes that have caused your eyes to bleed emotions that at once blend to form a canvas on which she sketches you and her melded together in a lover's embrace.

You sat across from me on the tube

you were wearing scuffed black Converse,
brown cargos and a navy Pea coat.


The weather was warm.


you were listening to music on over-
sized headphones, while your eyes danced.


I hummed along to your tune.

Both women lay bathed in the most beautiful light.

You are draped across the bed,

jeans and a check shirt.

I lay opposite,

my shoulders appear relaxed.

You laugh, strangled desire

paints the room white.

I, a voyeur of the hidden moments of my own mind,

watch an intimate conversation unfold.