And oh my gods I miss you,
Every single day.
Yet
every so often there is
one moment
of
the best kind of romance
of
the best kind of friendship
of
complete nakedness
that leads me
to miss you,
every single day
all the more.
Electra
He is not dead.
I will not use her words.
But I can tell you the exact moment he lost me
and
that I am still trying to find
his replacement.
When it comes down to it
I am not seeking vengeance
merely some sort of approval.
I want for nothing
but I want it all.
Blue Eyes
He held me in his arms all night
and I still dreamed of you.
I awoke and there were eyes of blue
that were not yours.
I begin to discover that
I will always dream of you.
I know when I come to
from a dream of you holding my hand
a dream of you in which
you completely understand
everything you never did
and with a kiss
that lasts all day
I find myself at peace
I find myself quite calm.
I think it entirely likely
that when i die
if I choose my heaven
it will be one in which
we walk and talk and kiss
for an eternity.
All this and I know
were you to choose a hell
it would be to spend
all that time with me.
I find it funny, more than anything else
on this day of utter peace.
Ten years ago and more
you wrote yourself into my heart
still I ache for all the times
we spent and spent and did not spend
never knowing
we’d be sharing them
forever more.
He held me all night long
and still I dreamt of you.
I’ll Take The Scraps
I can’t help but wonder
(when you’re furthest out of sight)
if I’m lying
to myself or others
about how much I want you.
But, in whatever way this is,
to see you for a second
and have your lips meet mine
sustains
a lifetime of writing.
To have the crumbs left behind…
I’ll take every single one into eternity
so keep on riding for me
I’ll send you back and send you out and send you on again
when you’re near me
everything else is eclipsed
for the space of a consonant
and
a meeting of eyes.
If the scraps shine this brightly
I’ll take the scraps any day.
Arrival
Here I am and Here was where I was allowed
to truly arrive.
Is it any wonder I don’t want to leave…
and am I faking things?
is it just for want of a ring?
But I’m still me, and I can’t quite bring myself
to buy into it all.
Here is where I am and Here was where
I truly arrive.
They let me out of my box, can you hear the dogs barking?
Can you hear them in the street?
Over all the scraps
of poetry written
some woman years ago, they let her out of her box
Or did we both, all, every single one of us
realise
that Here
was where we could
truly arrive.
If I am Here…then where, is my recognition?
Two and a half thousand years in the making
but I am born of a fifteen minute attention span
and I am Here
Now.
Where is my recognition? I’m looking a little tired these days
and
every single slut is singing
because we know what it is to
write poetry on bloody sheets of sweat
right here
right now
in front of you and I keep singing
Here is where I allowed myself to truly arrive
in the City on the River, in the City by the Sea
and I pulse when I think of her islands
and I pulse when
I have forgotten and he remembered.
Who knows what I meant,
but Wittgenstein makes me think of you.
(An English plural will have to serve, observe)
For you, an apple orchard will do,
You get the fairy steps
and you the early morning when you quite forgot…
scraps of poetry
written in a body
where is my recognition?
I’m looking a little tired these days
forgotten half of what I’ve written
and when I am so old, that no one could look at me
and hear the dog barking in the street
or wish they were a nose to gain my scent
then you will rule my mind
picked out in pathways of tiny sparks
in the City on the River, David’s Town by the Sea.
A long time ago in the making,
we are coming into our own,
we and I and you and both and every single one of us
because the children are upstairs
and the gas oven’s on
so get it over with and you can come and play
but everyone needs…
to be in the gang of awkward boys surrounding your light
I’m writing this because I know you used to read them
I’m diving, praying you’re still watching
because once I start then
I can’t stop
and the sluts have written
we keep on writing
poetry on sweat-stained sheets
the twenty-first century is mine
I’m still on time
and it was never
for want of a ring.
luvlymish
Mish's Quick Kisses 