Marks

I swear the prints on the ends of my fingers
are not mine but another's indelible marks.
I feel them like bruises or scars from a burn
or warm kisses on cold, pimpled skin.

These fingerprints make a canvas of me.
My body is smothered in their tiny ruin
tired eyes gently etched, carved in lines.
Callouses where love has worked at me.

There are marks all over the house at night
climbing the walls and the paper trees.
On the book by my bedside I can't bear to read.
The window where moonlit clouds are framed.

The songs in my head and my playlists
were left by a thief who got clean away.
They go off like bombs and shatter my insides
and when the dust settles, her prints will remain.

I'm sorry

I'm sorry I've not written
like I used to when you loved me.
It's not that I've not written, rather -
I cant quite make a line so perfect
as your hair and that woolly jumper.
I can't write a song that does justice
to your funny photos on the beach.
I made a cake but I don't think
it's good enough for breakfast.
I made a bird house from tin cans
but the rust will not be red
as a cardinal or the beak of a puffin.
And they will not visit, just like you.
When I hammered it together
I couldn't tell if I was sending arrows to your heart
or putting nails in a coffin.

Crying Out

I don't want to look at photos of you zipping down powerlines with crazy ideas.
I don't want to look at outlines of us kissing in space it's just 2-D and greyscale.
I want to look into your real eyes and count the shades of blue measure the depth of black.
Watch them roll when you say Oh! and see them smile when you realise - yes - I love you.
She sings of a long and slender body and I think of you. Always you.
Why don't you visit in my dreams I only dream of the past and wake up sad.

Fruits of Labour

Oh, apple tree!
Today I saw your fruit and blossom
proudly worn like precious pendants

the way stars hang from golden threads.
I should have known you were shaping love

'cause the clouds have been busy
as have the bees, alluring summer

with their detailed ministrations.

Your flowers are ever so pretty
and such impressive apples! Gosh -
is this one just for me?

I love it; thirst-quenching goodness

that goes straight to my heart and soul
as sweet on the eye as in the mouth.
Its sustains my constitution

(you know, keeps the doctor away).

You make me so proud when you bloom.

Oh, apple tree...

Certain Tone

You have a certain tone, you know
a particular peal that heralds your thoughts
Bold but soft at the edges
A lilt, falling away like a bright idea
that runs out of gas. Kinda sweet.
Always ringing of gorgeous heartache.
Even now, when it's actually work
or thanks for your purchase!
It will always be the sound of you,
exciting the nervous energy in my molecules
and making me imagine what happiness is like.