Gathering

Bits of glass bottles

rolled upon the waves until

smooth as small pebbles:

 

these are little pieces of time,

memories hazed to glorious moments,

the stories I formed when I looked into your eyes

 

and felt my own pain. They don’t reflect

now, these fragments of beach glass.

They glow on my palm in the dying winter sun;

cold fire to burn where my emotions

are colourless to outsiders, or ready

to blast through your windows

 

to get your attention.

You mightn’t recognise it in my eyes,

because I am a stranger to you.

 

Smooth, deadly bullets:

these are the days I’ll gather

for the war to come.