It's really human of you to listen to all my bullshit

I put my hands inside her hands
and felt her yesterday
as if it were my own.
Together we walked as though
Midnight was only an idea
and stayed until sun bleached
the colours of passing buildings.
It was Fall and the ground was covered
with orange leaves.

Knowing that you're somewhere makes being anywhere fine

It took a little more than five minutes
for you to realise that I was home,
and you spoke as though endless ribbons
were tied to your tongue once you had,
filling the cold space with stories.
I took off my coat
and poured milk into a glass.

Teen Idol #5

I'm going to meet Molly Ringwald this evening.

That's a very big deal.

In her honour, Teen Idol #5, a series I started mostly because Molly shaped my formative years more than she could ever know, is Sixteen Candles very own Samantha Baker.

I'll never forget her.

A person and a person

I put my hand on your arm
and spelt words with my fingers
as you guessed what I spoke
on your skin.
It was dark outside
and I could hardly see your face.

White noise

Sat across from each other
we ate eggs
as though we'd never spoken before
and this was our first time at breakfast,
midweek and tired.
You reached for the salt
and I wondered how we got here.

Polaroid

Spent the afternoon
searching photographs
for the light that once followed you
and remembered that before
you were always looking for something.
I wish you hadn't stopped.

Misplaced anger

I hadn't meant to shout
when you laughed,
or whisper under my breath
that you make sick rise into my mouth
each time you speak about your life,
which means little less than nothing.
Nor had I intended for you to hear
the joke I made at your expense
as you walked from where I sat
to an almost undoubtedly boring other place
filled with boring shit I couldn't care less about.
Cos we both know I'm mad at me
and its my shit we're dealing with
and that you're just close enough to feel it all,
so let us not mention any of it.

An emerging pattern

Someone took my hand
and walked me towards
afternoons I hadn't planned
and I walked there willingly,
without being pulled,
thinking they knew me better
when they hadn't known me at all.

Fifty seven years

I would stand in James Deans garden
and shout out his letters
into night that filled him up
and through windows he sat behind,

alone,

or with someone to pass the time.

I would shout them out,
each louder than the last
until I spoke louder
than the voices that told him no.
And I would stay
until his garden filled with morning
and he felt a little lighter too.

A bee that I painted