all imperfect things

This time, there were no words, no heart
this time there were no violins
there were no eyes or lips, they played no part
This time.

I love you sometimes like the fire loves rain
like we love the thing that kills us. And I love you like
something old that starts ringing again, old telephones,
old feelings on
the other end
old letters that
we didn’t send
faded pressed flowers and books on your bookcase
things that we lost in the floods.

Can eyes bleed
I don’t really know but there’s something leaking
somewhere, here, eyes trace wet and there is no sorrow
there is no sorrow
anywhere
but in my feet, where skin has memory
And skin feels feathery kisses, there, then kicks and starts
feels cold tiles

and the
creaking concrete cries
and the jarring of those eyes
of people who don’t know me but
feel they’ve got some licence to stare
from the feeling-sorry-for-you
society...

I love you sometimes. Not so often
anymore, not when my feet feel chapped and sore
and my heart is in my mouth with fear
perhaps not then. But then again
the moon is black the sun is blue
and I see in negative, perhaps because you
have knocked me that way
socked me that way
killed me, killed me, killed me that way

but here is a world where desire is more
than my doused household fire
and dying is pain and the pain is desire
and it’s all brimstone, and it’s all mire
I love you, sometimes.
I love you sometimes.
when i look at you all i ever see
is facial features
seventeen year old knees
all the letters that you meant to send
all the phonecalls that you wished you didn’t
have to end.