love

I the merman

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I the merman thirst for your love as you thirst for air, thirst for the touch of your warm hand against my temple.

I the merman here in this bubble live for the thought of the sunlight on my back. My hair drifts. My flat eyes look upwards, there where I saw you.

Your hand is grazing the water, the white-painted boat rocks gently as a mother’s arms. Can I touch you? Can I take you? Will you scream and struggle for a while?

The touch of your warm fist against my temple. The thrash of the water around us. The bubbles from your silent mouth, the roundness of your eyes. I release you.

I the merman thirst for your love as you thirst for air, thirst for the touch of your warm hand against my temple.

The architecture of the hooks

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I saw the delicate blueprints, blue, old style. I leaned over to see them better on the desk, my hand soft on your shoulder. The chalky paper and the tracing of the clever blue lines. The architecture of the hooks. The sharpness for piercing, the long long straight wire that slips through flesh, stronger than hope and stronger than regret, and then the unexpected undefeatable curve and the late, too late, barb.

And when you left you left the hooks in my heart. A constant low burning and then too often the sharpness when the music touches the line, the taste or the odour, the colour of the scarf in the distance.

Inspired by a line by Hardeep Singh Kohli @misterhsk

Let us walk through the old city alleys

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Let us walk through the old city alleys and tell each other stories of how our lives have been, stories of the heart and head, of what was and what might never have been.

And no regrets, no, no regrets. It wasn’t and it wasn’t and that is how it was. No regrets, no tears, red sunsets beautiful as the rising sun, the summer noon has been and gone and now you hold my hand.

White wall old city alleys, we stop and look up and smell the dust and smile at the swallows in the line of blue. Hands softly tighten, fingers lock gentle.

And the stories we are telling we shall tell forever.

The first time I shared a box set with you

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The first time I shared a box set with you, it was play play play all the way. No hold, no pause, from disk to disk and day to day, episodes one through six without eating or drinking or sleeping. No thought. Why should we rewind when we’re forwarding so fast? What’s next? What’s next in our cliffhanger story? Next disk.

Then one day I watched a show without you and our stories parted. I was sorry, we paused and thought, then one of us rewound, rewound so far I could never catch up. I found myself spun off then deleted, episodes nine to twelve still in their shrink wrap, tidied away in the cupboard of unfinished dreams.

Beneath the skins I breathe

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Beneath the skins I breathe your breath.

Your head in my hands you lie still;

still and soft-muscled, all tension gone.

Your breath slow and dark hangs in the light, 

the light strained through skins, my eyes are blurring.

My own breath slows, and slows.

Slow as yours, my breath hangs heavy.

Beneath the skins I breathe your breath.

Kitchen sink drama

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The washing up done, Tina drew a heart on the steamed up kitchen window. Her rubber glove squeaked as she wrote her lover’s name. A vegetable knife glinted from the bottom of the sink. Tina rinsed it and stared at the heart and the name. Then she opened the window so that the steam, and the name, disappeared. It was gone. Until Tina’s husband did the steamy washing up the next day.

http://www.paragraphplanet.com 25 November 2013