on the sliding scale

the things we do

in desperation

hopelessness

seem foolish after

but in the moment

are the only way

I am the master

of such things

knowing how far 

to push the line

til you slam the door

in my face

perhaps I prefer

the cold pavement outside

to the tension

that lurks behind

regardless

I’d prefer to be let in

once again

so there I was

out in the cold

of a perfume store

seeking out your brand

the glass bottle

and wooden lid

already screaming

pressing the button

the colourless liquid 

spilled on my wrist

I watched it dry

unremarkable

like any other scent

raising it to my nose

I almost choked

and cried out at once

there you were

lying on your bed

with a ravenous expression

colour flooding your cheeks

or you

after the shower

the ends of your hair

soaking

where we had jostled

for room and skin

soap suds sliding down 

your pale creamy flesh

our first embrace

and last goodbye

and every silence and pause

in between your words

the things we didn’t say

or couldn’t articulate

pulling my wrist away

I roused myself

out of useless nostalgia

surrounded by strangers

I felt so alone

with your memory

weighing down my skin 

Reviews

[Devons]

A very good piece of work indeed. This undulates with dark gravitas, and deep, almost macabre emotion. There is a kind of deadly finality to the words, purely reminiscent of the sentiment of its subject. The overall texture and essence of the poem is rather like a perfect weaving of two substances which should not in all probability be compatible: the brittle harshness of an engraved tombstone, and the soft freying warmth of a tapestry...