Absurdity.

At a distance, you're a memory.
Or a photo that shifts and blinks and smiles.
Or typed words, somehow in human form.
In this crowd of strangers
I'm acutely aware of the few I know.
They glow.
You don't. You're a brown haired memory.
As you pass me, greet me, you're my imagination.
A part in a play I've enacted
over and over and over.
In this mess of conversations,
I see you fulfill your part.
They shine.
You don't. You're my dusk imagination.
In a room of laughter, I catch you watching me and
oh god. You are real.
Our silence fills the noisy room,
and the absurdity is a jester with a pointed stick.
Laughable. Painful. Ridiculous.
My fluttering fingers
against a coffee mug.
In reality, you are no different.
And the drama is a scene on a stage.
Or a page in a story book.
In this place of busy bodies,
I feel other characters shift like the tide.
They ghost.
You don't. You are the only person
in the over-full room.

When all the lamps expire,

and I know you've got it so wrong,
and the conviction that you feel
comes out in your song,
and your music is so haunting
because I know exactly what you mean,
and your words cause a wound
because you're singing them right at me...

I'm still so proud of you.

Chess.

Unlike in a game of chess, the squares are not just in black and white. The greys merge and overlap in a subtle changing mess of shades. The black Knight has made his final move. It is a risky one at best, leaving him open to danger from both sides. It is the white Queen's move. She stands, tall and pale. She has one final chance, but though she trembles with the choice she knows she made years ago, she elects to stand her ground. And wait as her white King moves a step closer.

Thing is, I knew it.

I do know you this well. Almost two years later and I still know. You don't know me as well as I know you. If you did you'd have guessed. To me it's blatantly obvious... But then it would be. But I can't do what you've done. God, I wish I could.
Fall back and behind, my love. Fall back and behind and away and forget. Leave me with my knowledge, because you believe I don't, while I know we both do. And this side is the one that's far, far harder to be on.

My answer.

I’m hiding behind all these words
I cannot afford to say.
Answers gone ungiven.
Questions left unasked.
They’re holding me captive.
I’m not the answer
for all the questions you have.
An argument with no end,
that stretches in my minds eye
into all eternity.
This isn’t how I want to remember you.
The interrogation is building up.
Brick by boring brick;
a wall of question marks.
They keep me occupied,
they keep me alone.
The answer you wanted,
but I’m long gone.
I’m lost behind all these words
I cannot afford to say.

Release.

And when at last it came, it was a flood. The waves shuddered and juddered and rocked the walls, so that the cracks drove deeper and deeper into the brickwork. The cement was dissolved in the tainted waters, and with sighs and groans the walls crumbled into rubble. One corner at a time. Murky black with the remnants of adorning paint, the ripples left stained streaks, tide marks, on each piece as it swayed through the water to sink, shattered and tired, into the sand of the bed.

First one.

I’m held down by thin chains of glittering silver. I finally did it. I stopped straining long enough to sing you a song, to pour out my heart to you. You’d waited so long for that. And your hands reached for the chains. I flew prematurely. Before you’d even finished I had spread my wings; my body buoyed up by relief, I tried to flee the hurt that was threatening to strike me down. But with a snap I was pulled back. You’d only released one chain. The other yanked at my foot, the silver cutting into my veins, and my relief came crashing down around my fluttering wings. I don’t know if you even noticed you still haven’t let me go, let me go. Can’t you see? Your bird is trying to fly away.

Last one.

I wrote you a letter in blue ink.
It sits under my mattress,
between the pages of a Wallace and Gromit annual.
The tones and subjects clash rather.

I imagine them fighting it out,
like all the thoughts did,
round and round my head, conflicting with each other.
I think Wallace and Gromit won.

I'll hand the letter to your sister.
Then she can hand it over to you.
Then you can read it and argue it and throw it away.
I'll sleep on it tonight.

Fifteen years in the making.

The family that's closeted in my heart.
I close my eyes and your images appear on my eyelids;
Photos at the top of the stairs.
I haven't seen you in so long, but I can now...
The family that's tied tight to my heart.
Blonde looking after three brown heads:
two sons, one daughter; two who I've loved,
one who I've left, one who I never knew at all.
The family that's pulling at my heart.
You've been through your joys and celebrations,
your pains and battles,
But fifteen years in the making,
this storm beats them all.
The family that hurts my heart.
I close my eyes and your troubles grow in my chest;
crumbs trodden into the carpet.
With a shrug I could push them away,
with a careless smile I could laugh them away,
But your family is too close to my heart.

I saw you today.

I'm on my feet. Heat against bare legs so
oddly out of place; sun bright spotlights your
brown hair and white shirt. That unique walk. Oh, I do
remember. Sheepskin coat. River. White cotton soft.
Three notice my movements and misinterpret them.
They don't see you. But I do.
Sunglasses shield my eyes- and my identity?
Maybe with long hair and baggy shirt and clear eyes
I could have caught you. Dark curls between cold fingers.
I watched as you walked out of sight, away from me.
Busy bodies and open mouths and coloured words.
They don't see you. But I do.

Morning.

Early one morning I was making breakfast,
A panda piano symphony in my head.
My hands were holding a teacup of memories
that wept hot tears as I remembered what you'd said.

Baby blue brought me a bathos note
as my bashful cheeks began to glow.
You always were a cornucopia of knowledge
about things you'll never need to know.

51 Chawley Lane.

That family smell that sticks to you and swirls about your head
as you run your hand over the thick fur of bright blue eyes blink, lazy.

And those brown eyes that blink, deep. That laugh that echoes yours,
or else your mistake. A verbal trip, skip, woops. Okay, blonde moment.

And your blonde hair the odd one out in this room of dark beauties.
Your giggle not the only sound as your stories mix and confuse.

And hitting buttons; a success story. Words battling against his head,
Let the girls be victorious! A game won by… clever means.

And those clever, clever minds holding all that knowledge
as we sit and stare or mock or drink it in; An encyclopaedia-know against your lack.

And that faded green against your back, a fruit-tea-mug in your hands.
That music is so soft it still makes me cry smile at those notes that seem so familiar.

And those people that smile with you and love with you and feel with you
in that house of heavy stone in the centre of empty fields.

14th Feb

I can still see the way you stood.
Don’t tell me you’ve changed your stance
because that picture is so vivid.
Head tilted, resting on one foot.

The guy in front of us had roses.
Their velvet softness made me smile
and I think it was a shame.
Crimson petals in perfect smooth posies.

You laughed at my ideals, but
it was an idea taken from mine.
The box was red and hard edged;
large black letters stretched across it’s front.

I wish you hadn’t been so nervous
because the memories feel strange.
But our safe place was warm.
So do you remember last year?

That picture reminds me of what I'm missing. Sometimes I wonder why I keep it.

Secrets.

A couple of words on a postcard-sized image, and my throat constricts and my eyes well with tears.
If this is one of those things, can't it be more specific? I keep thinking the world is giving me instructions and I keep wondering if I'm misreading them...
The pictures in my head don't connect well to real life. I think of what I would say and the responses, and I imagine the emotions on the faces and the feeling behind the gestures, and then I realize that in reality all would be awkwardness.

These little things that make me rethink are going to have to work harder to persuade me. It's one thing to pull at someone's heartstrings, but how do you know you're playing the right song?

How do you tell people they've got it wrong?

A letter?
The piece of paper is still sitting on my desk, the crease making it perch uncomfortably on it's side like a handicapped butterfly. It wavers slowly in the breeze and as I watch it I feel myself expect it suddenly to leap off the stained wood and lance it's way towards me through the cold air. I flinch and then turn away, shaking my head, berating myself for being such a cowardly fool. It sits in hungry silence and shouts it's spider-track words at my head.
I fear it. I abhor it. I crumple it in my hand an let it drop to the floor. The dog pats it with its paw. I watch as he takes it in his mouth and wanders out into the garden. That's where it belongs, with the dogs. I know who it was from. But it wasn't even signed, anyway.

A text?
My phone vibrates and I flick it open to stare in amazement at the number on the screen, then with growing shock at the words. Who do they think they are? The anger grows with the shock and I know there is more behind the simple message the text permits, but I cannot bear to think that this person, this person of all people, would dare do this to me. I slam the phone shut and throw it on the bed and clench my fists and my teeth.
Later my mother calls me for dinner and we argue, my anger taking itself out on her. Three hours later and I delete the text, do not privilege this person with an answer. But the rage has cut me deep. And for nights I do not sleep.

A mail?
The black letters shiver across the screen and I realize that it is my tears that are making them do so. My fingers dance across the keyboard and my throat tightens as I send the mail I know I will not get a reply to.

In person?
Gold glow contradicts words. My heart is in my throat and my nails are digging into my palms. Sitting opposite me, the words ripple from soft lips like poison water. I cannot understand the reasoning. Are not the painful cracks and broken pieces evident? What is it that entertains the opinion that I am wrong? Concentrating on the lecture is hard. Those hands push aside the heavy air to accentuate the words, and I think I see the slow-tracks they leave behind. Leave me alone. Go home. You confuse me.

Remembering last Christmas.

It’s the long dark nights out and the Christmas lights indoors. It’s my heavy black coat and the grey fingerless gloves tucked into the lining. It’s my mobile phone sitting silent at my bed side and the lack of connectivity on my laptop. It’s the words flicking up onto the screen and the rain at my window. It’s the image of New Years Eve and the lack of recipient for my odd thoughts.

Sea you.

I feel too weary fight it at times, and as the salt water rises and licks long grooves into the tired rock, I sit and watch the waves crash with relentless strength against the grey stones that do not yield, but, as time goes by, wear down and down to the crystal shards that litter the ground at my feet.
I stare with heavy eyes at the tiny pieces of former strength that whisper against my bare feet. They click and slick against each other, rubbing each other down even as they lie in broken flints against the remaining, rounded stones. I stare until my heavy eyes mist and fog and I watch the mass of separate pieces mould and sink into a swirling sheet of grey-brown. A collection of failure. Until the glowing green catches my eye.
Out of the brown rises a bright fragment of brilliant colour. And as I cradle it in my palm, while the waves continue to crash around me and the stones rush and snap against each other, I hear the wind falter and the air grow calm. I gaze wonder at this flawed beauty in my fingers. And this is what I walk away with. Time and time again.

My grey fingerless gloves are tucked into the lining of my heavy black winter coat. They slipped through the hole in the pocket all those months ago before I put my coat into the loft, and they hold in their knitted palms the memories of last winter...

You too?

Well, it seems I am not alone in my emptiness.
She sits, as I do, at her keyboard, and the beauty of her mind turns the feelings into words that can allow her to pour out her pain onto the page and perhaps, just perhaps, ease the tightness and relax her emotions.
Some people talk about it. Some people hide it. Others, like us, the WordOnes, write it down.

I have nothing in particular to remind me today. Only the lingering hurt that crouches like a small child just under my ribs. Every now and again it uncurls itself and stretches arms and legs and body to reach far down into my stomach and up to the base of my neck. It sighs and my throat tightens. It sighs and my shoulders tense. It sighs and my fingers twitch. In my momentary panic I obey it's commands and I feel the fear rise up through my gullet to stain my tongue with the bitter taste of soured truth. Such power this small child has.
But sometimes the elf that brings to mind such saturating memories also brings a slight relief. With a laughing word she cuts a cord and it flicks back to sting at my skin and release a breath full of thanksgiving. A Uni course. A healthy body. A job. With each tiny bit of news she unlocks a further portion of my tiny hidden cage and lets out a little more freedom. The relief is incredible.
And then suddenly all the doors slam shut. A punch in the stomach. A thud round the side of the head. A broken rib. She didn't mean it, I know. She didn't know.

Does she have a place she goes? Or a place she avoids? Is her music disunited and segmented as mine is? We take refuge in our loved ones. But when all else fails we return to our writing. What else is there to do? We are the WordOnes.