whisper and rhyme

It wasn't an accident like you made us all believe.
You were hung like a fallen leaf caught half-way down,
the back of your coat tugging on the rusting nail.
That was escape, that was therapy.
Therapy, your cold rooms painted pale pink,
the numbers on the wall counting to the time they'd tell you
time was up
and you'd have to leave.


We lived for those moments,
when no one seemed simple or superior,
and we'd sing praises to the heavens we never believed in.
But even then we were losing,
losing you, losing each other.
You were so far ahead that you were lost and wonderful,
eyes creeping like the blood soaking up the
thin fabric, thin threads with new veins sneaking
and shuffling,
queues of grey children waiting for nothing.
They know,
as we eventually knew.


I had hoped you would understand. You couldn't have made it better,
but you would realise how the feathers burn as they fall,
blistering against the skin, as the skin they have left is exposed.
You sent me letters and emails describing your sparks
and your water,
you said that you were afraid of getting burnt in my fire
and sometimes you wanted to douse it,
but being burnt was nicer than being left out in the cold.
I couldn't read it without picturing you,
drunk in stilettos and arms around another,
scrambling against each other to try and change your worlds,
or leave your old one behind.


The last time we spoke we knew it was ending,
we knew the turmoil was paying off.
Too much had been spent on moonless nights
and sunlit days. We were in the shallow end, at that time.
We both wanted out, we both wanted to move further apart.
Stale stale stale.

You said you'd lost your talent
and you were flooding out the bedrooms
and sleeping with the flowers.