A poem

It was a wet Sunday
when I ate buttered toast
and imagined myself free.

And I was free.

Because the reasons I found
to stay stuck
were not reason enough.

And so I ran.

If I had my way

If I had known
that then wasn't always
I would have put
each word you spoke
carefully between
pieces of tissue paper
inside boxes
on shelves
in my room
so that now
when you are not here
I could take them down
and out
and live
in a different now
made up of befores
with you.
Again.

Do you not remember what we had

I sat there
with one foot in the past
and left a record that I was searching 
for days that were bigger than I.

Took deep breaths
in an attempt to fill myself with air
and float above
what I know I cannot hold onto endlessly.

When music plays you should sing
and if you get to choose
always run towards arms
that are open.

And keep looking,
be willing
and know for sure
that I am here,
searching with you.

If there is each other
then we already have everything.

Because it is you

Sweet is the sound of you
and you are all that I hear
as I go about my day
eating custards creams
and watching cars.

And my steps are heavy
each time I walk
the long way round
farther from you,
and wait once again
for you to follow.

Each minute only seems
like one minute
if each one of those
was made up of ten.
I am taunted
by passing time
passing slowly.

And still I wait.

Because it is you.
It is always you.

How I see it

Each line that I write is a rope
that is tied to an anchor
in the middle of everything else.
I will stare at the sun
until the light obscures what I see
and alters the steps that I take
so that each line I write
will become a rope
that is tied to fighting chance.

And I will walk
with a souvenir in my hand
of what it once was
and
will be silenced only by death
and not the fear
that what I say is meaningless.

A reason for being

I have built
words
on top of
words
in hopes
that there will be a day
when all that I need
will be inside my pockets
and I shall run til comfort
is all that I am seeking
and all that I will find.

It's OK to fall down sometimes.

Then,

Then
I realised that you would end
and untied the strings that tethered
my heart
to
your hands.

I walked through days bound only
to an indefinite call from a future
that had been freed
from definite calamity.

And I walked singing.  

It should have been me.
But it wasn't.

Until I realised that it was wholly
as it should have been
and it was only me
crying for otherwise.

Something I thought I'd forgotten

I wore your skin for too long and
became myself in your likeness.
Danced steps
over
and
through
until my face disappeared into yours
and spoke only words
to ease the distance
between
you
and
he.

Carelessly you wrote stories on your hands
and held them to my chest
so that my insides would know only you
and would wither when you were not here.
And you are not here. 
And you were never here.

Now I hold onto time
like I will find answers there if my grip is tight,
knowing all the while
that I will find only what you left
and that even nothing won't grow into something
no matter what I do.

A possible solution

I'm going to give you a pencil
and walk you to the foot of a mountain.
Standing there
I will watch as you draw what
is in front of us.
I will study each line
and curve
and detail
as we stand,
side by side,
pencils in our hands.
I need to know for certain that
what you see
is
what I see
because as of right now
you've made nothing clear
and I don't know
how else to be sure.

Nothing but your name. The Illustration