broken tiles & a dead yellow light.
hypnotised by the brass bell,
hanging from the door which
awakens a thought that lies
nowhere near you, it has
been the first time
in days.
reserving pages to elucidate you,
because you're not so mysterious
if it weren't for facts. i
find it so hard to fall for
anything more
than fiction
having invented every
detail, every scent.
you will break my
silly heart, in a
single sentence.
a multitude of grey in the carpets,
meandering to the wall & back. it
would be like rainy days, when i
drive you through the slick
greasy streets. & somehow
fit beneath your chin
like a perfect piece,
finding something
they call 'solace'
i am sick of the feeling
that i'm about to burst while
avoiding you like a black plague,
thinking up things that are not
to be believed. you have cost
the very essence of me.
suddenly it seems perfectly plausible
to turn head-to-shoulder while waiting
for my coffee; to think you are
examining the doric columns
holding the weight of all,
while with a cedar mouth
narrating my movement
from pavement to
corner.