her

I'm not crying.
I'm just remembering.
her.

fading

I look at the words I wrote
on yellowed paper now
I overlay the younger hands 

and trace lines 
that follow the context of those thoughts
memories now but not then
as I wrote these words
the wounds were fresh
the laughter was still ringing
and the hopes still rich
and dripping with time

now they fade
now the wounds have healed
and the laughter softens to a smile

memento mori

the writer traps himself within his own truths
the poet tortures himself with what ifs
the lover hangs himself with promised lies
and the madman loves them all

just Michael

one day
all this
even this
will end
naked in the sun
free of connection
I will stand
alone
but with peace

the other lives
will drift away
until my horizon
is cleared of reflections
and then echoes
of empty thoughts
will crumble between
memories and dreams
they will dissipate
in this new silence
they will free me
until
I will be

just Michael

hearts and munitions

she had no heart
so I gave her mine
but donating an organ
whilst in love
is like holding onto a live grenade

after you've thrown

the pin
 

in matters of the heart

where does love live?
does it live alone?
silently

contentedly

assured of its value
in some dusty corner

of our hearts
what does love fear?

truth?

rejection?

why does it leave us?

when we need it the most?

we dream of it

we hope for it

we pray for it

but in my truth

within my story

we have always lived apart

and in matters of the heart

I remain poor

fading fast

my time was yesterday
yours is today and tomorrow
I belong with the graveside mourners
you belong with the dreamers and shakers
I am no longer my father's hope
or my mother's fear
for I am parentless
the last of my line
a man seeking an honourable end
but what I give to you
what I press willingly into you hands
are the remaining embers of my life
and the last ounce of my love

still sorry

sometimes I don't think
sometimes I don't see
sometimes I punch through hearts
only to remember
that some souls are paper thin
and that words
my sharp words
can cause tears
and pile upon those delicate shoulders
an unbearable weight
sometimes I don't think
sometimes I don't see
is it any wonder that it is only regret
that embraces me?

an interesting question

 How do immortals measure time?

.. by the tombstones of mortals loved.

(this was a question I once saw on Twitter.... I mulled over my reply for days)

pieces of a life

my life
the two piece puzzle
which doesn't want to dovetail
or conform to my will

it just rattles in a box
with an image on its lid
which doesn't match
the two shapes within

but everyday I try
to make the angles and curves join
to complete a symmetry
which isn't supposed to make sense