just because it's ended doesn't mean it's stopped.

what i am now is regret, plaster-cast wings, sleet tears, ravens, golden shoes and silver soles. i am something likening the sun to teacups, questioning god, about finding solace in intangibility, about not knowing the difference between dawn and dusk and this is about cotton lungs. i am an orchestra for a dying man, a last rite for a newborn and this is what happens when i try to liken my fingerprints to entire constellations, but fall, tumble out of static clouds, expiring right before my eyes.








we counted car-parking spaces on a bland night.
  "i love-”
                  "don’t.
          please."








between us, the sky rose and held the trees in torment. we pushed the daisies up from ice-grey grass, hearts anchored to the core as we realised that coating ourselves in silver and draping ribbons of gold-tone words all over the horizon was never going to be enough.


sunrise stole you from me.
ra ripped apart the tornado between your ribs,
grasped your chin in a blistered hand and
burnt your eyes out.





i was green, looking back. my skeleton was sculptured out of jade and peridot, and snapped when i needed it to bend. your fingernails hid waterfalls of crows and epitaphs and early sunsets and latin phrases and the holocaust and it’s all because you loved letting things die.












we tried to keep a rose alive once.
you gave it water, kept it in sunlight,
i spooned salt into the vase.

and it died.

i laughed.
i laughed because it died.

it died because i killed it.



i could destroy something which wasn’t me.















being shoved from chameleon hands to chameleon hands; we never knew who trod the line between the atmosphere and the horizon. we could have let ourselves crumble chalk cliffs and drink the ocean dry and like you said i am magical, it will never be enough. like a cynosure, we coiled celestial bodies across our skin. you thundered melodies all along my backbone, and it disintegrated along with the air.






you were an architect.
crafted sculptures from aurified words,
switchbladed sentences out of rotten
wood and a empty heart

so when i wrote down little things,
like the lyrics to your favourite songs
and silly comments about nursery rhymes,
remembering market square,
remembering august and thinking of
threes and the colour red
and opticians and two syllables
and rock city and dancing
and anything else that makes you smile,
you ripped it up and burnt it in blue
because perhaps you are colourblind
and saw it as green.



i am winter.
i will grow.