Archive | September 2015

Six word stories: Rut

Order wine; drink. End day. Repeat.

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Home

Sitting idle, alone,
Remembering a time when
This home felt right
To return to again.

There are ghosts which occupy
Every inch of each room;
They whisper words of history
Spoken too late, too soon.

It is hard to feel present
In a place swollen with the past
Regurgitating memories,
Repeating them, so they last.

Home is where time
Deviates from a line
And folds onto itself
Usurping what is mine.

We fall into the shoes
Of those above us
By walking in circles
And speaking in dust.

Home is a circle,
Home is a tide;
To say you won’t follow
Is not resistance, but a lie.

Six word stories: Marriage

She poured coffee for herself only.

Six word stories: Letterbox

Unopened letters piled at the door.

Six word stories: Crowds

With others, he stood within himself.

Payday

The day the money
Left us feeling so cold,
Stuck on the sofa,
Everything sold.

Eating the same meal
For days on end;
Hoping that the money
Would return again.

The end of the month
Brings something, like a smile,
And the money drips back
If only for a while.

The week is now dead
And the change is all gone
And the next three weeks
Will feel three years long.

In cycles of poorness,
We lie to ourselves;
Whiskey wet wishing
We were somewhere else.

Wet nights

Breathe to me,
Words of whiskey wetness,
the love you have felt
For the past hour or less.
No lights please,
Just dark presses and scrapes
Until the night leaves us
In unromantic shapes.
Remember me tomorrow,
When you roll back into your mind,
As that which you once loved,
If only for a limited time.

Cold nights

All night we lay –
Broken –
In moments of elbows
And awkward arms
And tucked knees;
“Move over, please.”
Take the covers
And expose me
To a coldness,
Your hunchedness,
You – curled up
Inside yourself –
Tucked up and fucked,
Lying somewhere else.
Show me all your distance:
The inch-long mile
Which separates us
From our next smile.
Hours of ceiling eyes
Whilst my skipping brain
Asks of you, wordlessly,
What of us remains?
The nights are quieter now
And cloaked in touchless darkness.
“And I don’t know how -”
“Sleep, it’s too late for this.”