December is for letting go

I still carry her last words. “Look after yourself.” In my broken brain, it sounded like, “I’m not going to.”

Loser

Living offline Mornings crack open my back Separation is a violence – I own a heart with a hole punched through The intimacy of loss – I am in bed with ghosts Forty days a requiem I am disappearing I am then I am not Here unpicking stitches Then untying knots of our years And…

So lovely you make my teeth hurt

Today I saw photographs of you I’d forgotten about. And the breath I took in was taken back out; returned. My stomach sank and touched my toes. My mouth went from rainforest to desert. You make everything ordinary almost too beautiful to bear. When I remember you, you are not a photograph. I’m not thinking…

A Journal of Undoing – Four

For so long I have been in the possession of something that aches to be broken wide open and set free from longing. I will take anything – an affair, a distraction, a broken arm, an appendectomy. Heartache; anything that provides release from the embers of loving someone who needs nothing; least of all you….

A god of one’s own

I wanted a god of my own We would be, my god and I, impeccable in our fallibility I wanted a god who rode bicycles and cooked breakfast Burnt her fingers and held them to my lips A god who came home late waking me with her perfume Reaching for me in the fumbling dark…

And of her hair…

Her hair tumbles open I am unravelling This is the soundtrack to her hair falling across her cheek

This wanting sits deep in my marrow

this wanting sits deep in my marrow a missing like hunger my belly smacks with the lack of you as the bitter heart of winter misses the soft crumpling edge of heat some days I want you so desperately I taste blood on my tongue .

My.

My constellation My launch pad of a thousand ships – your beauty is alchemy My belly is dough My breath is leaving me My knees betray

Books make the worst lovers

Once, I couldn’t imagine that a book could hurt. But reading, like lovemaking, is among our most private of acts and that means vulnerability. Like all secrets, a book is power. A page turns. You grow deeper into a bond you accepted with complicity. Pasts reopen. Words reveal all. I’ve loved women. And men. And…