Skip to content

Red

March 25, 2013

forty

It’s not getting any better.
And I’m not going to be alright.
The water’s frozen over.
With the cracking of the ice, like the cracking of my back.
I can hear no movement coming.
There is nothing.
And I have become it.
I sleep too much and I speak too low.
For in their silence, I can still hear your laugh.
The voices of others are the sound of ground glass.
The chaos of crickets as I lay my head on the grass.

There are photos of us.
You and I in the background
Of somebody’s memories.
I found them by chance.
In a hole in a wall that you built.
I hold them too close.
Don’t I always?
I don’t suppose you know they exist.
I lit them by moonlight at my window.
To put a bit of fight in my chest.
I smoke a lot of cigarettes.
And wonder, if you saw them.
Which ones you’d like best.

There will only ever be you.
Which is a sore and poisoned truth.
Cause, by God, I fucking hate you.
Would hurt you if I could.
Would burn you, if it took that.
Thoughts of you creep in as softly as a knife.
An Angel’s tear falling on the back of my hand.
The painful beauty of those five red mornings.
When the fire in your eye ran like milk down my body.
I love you with the ferocity of Hell broke loose.
You’re my noose.
Sing me to sleep and don’t wake me.
Unless it be by your grace.
Because no-one.
Absolutely no-one.
Could ever take your place.

 

Advertisements

From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. Reblogged this on yasniger and commented:
    Beautifully written

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: