II

My heart turns stale
at the thought of crumbling
into an expiry date, unused,
unopened, your kiss is a fruit
that never ripened for these lips.

More mould than mind,
you take a slice of me
then feed me to the birds.
I crumble at your fingertips
but even the birds won’t feast.

I’m spat out like I’m sour,
like the pollen is poison
in the flower that sprouts
from the wasteland of my heart.

And yet my love is a seed
that stays beneath the soil,
rotting into itself in silent fury
as I learn to hold my own hand.

III

The constellation of me and you
is sewn into my heart
but not into the skies. I close my eyes
to see the stitch of your smile
sew the seam of my lips, your kiss,
my heart is a shooting star leaping into an abyss.

IV

We picked flowers and pressed them like memories
to the blank canvas of our minds,
pockets full of possibility,
suitcases full of time,
our hearts were hot air balloons of hope
and we weren’t afraid to fall in flight.

V

my heart is a beast raging out of control,
a pulsating pound of flesh thrashing
against the bars of its cage

it bites.

bleeding into its bruises, the beast
threatens to rip through ribs
tear skin to shreds

it lies.

the beast is naked on the inside,
it doesn’t want to be free
it wants to be held,

it cries.

the heart cannot be tamed,
don’t force it into hibernation.

VI

My heart is a sinking ship staring at the stars,
scared to settle on the seabed as a pile of ripped rails,
dusty decks, sagging sails,
it dreads being dragged down to dayless depths,
defeated, dressed in darkness,
this ship has sailed storms inside my soul,
through tides that tear it apart from the inside,
my heart hurled against the rocks, again, again,
but it always crawls back to shore.
The sea holds out its hand but this ship still won’t dance.

VII

My heart is buried beneath a floorb­oard
in a corner of the house
we could have lived in, loved in,
the chair you could have curled in
gathers dust in an empty embrace,
the fire you could have felt
fades to flames in the fireplace,
the handle holds out its hand
grasping air without grace,
the bread on the side, stale, unsliced,
the love letter in your heart,
not yet thought, untyped,
the glass of milk turns sour,
the rim of its lips has cracked,
the clock throws away its hours
and my heartbeats are like footsteps
chasing after each other
at the trace of your touch.

VIII

thoughts of love
gather like dust
in the attic of my mind
and won’t be swept away,
words that never ripened, unspoken,
cower as cobwebs in the corner,
behind boxes of broken promises
seeking shadow and shade
as I open the window
to let the room inhale
the promise of dawn
deep into its dusty lungs