Wednesday, 7 June 2017


Sitting across,

you looked in my eyes,

wrote untrue words, drew


on me,

that I need to erase,

that warped our memories and


days and nights,

of knowing firmly, what I am,

in your mind, in your heart,

under your


and your hands

from someone precious,

and carried in your soul,

to someone who fills, gaps, alone,

not a constant

but an occasional thing;

feelings on, feelings off; like a

passing wasp’s sting that smarts,

intense for a while,

then fades and erodes

as a passionate smile between

those, I know,

light each others’

worlds; a momentary sparkle

of a diamond,

or a glint, of the pearl

I knew myself,

to be,

in your eyes,

until you were wearing this new

disguise that denies

all I felt, and yet see:

you are not, you are not,

what you’d have

me believe,

not just a taker, out to

deceive; who casts and reels

however he pleases for no reasons,


than he can;

that is not the measure of

the man that sits now

carving his name

on my heart;

he does it

just the same

as at the very start; when I know,

I carved mine on his too,

and slowly thereafter, neither

one of us moved without

holding the other…

…cradling them,

in their chest,

each day;

veiled and undercover

to protect what ignites in a look,

or a touch;

not nothing, at all, but far too much

to define,

or ever describe –

something we cannot help

but keep hiding,

like a heart,

drawn quickly, in the sand:

of me,

of  you,

this is all I have ever believed;

the only reasons I understand.

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