cosmonausea

Lately, I’ve been a vanishing act with sleight-of-hand grandeur you’d never expect

I’ll be back when explosions illuminate your applause, your encores granted.

Please remain on the edge of your seat. 

I didn’t mean to quit.

remember this,

i didn’t flick the switch.

i didn’t pull the life support.

it was down to you,

and you used the plug like a noose

and from the curtain-rail that held your walls,

your cell, your neon-lit castle,

your home on the ward,

you hung the cord. 

sick of the thickness

of hospital metaphor,

you closed yourself off.

from then, when i held you

i heard your heart stop.

I could list

a thousand things that make us

perfect for each other

before I realise

those were just

the things we did today.

she dances 

they’re a spotlight,

the headlights

and it’s nights like this

the hiss of pistons

grips your ears.

it’s music.

limbs fly and tyres sing

and she’s painted red

by brake lights

or blood.

head-in-the-mud in the verge.

it’s urgent and the sirens’ chorus

sought applause.

i have this dream.

i’m being sick

and it’s leaves,

then it’s sleet and

the toilet bowl is 

full of seasons.

this is your tshirt,

these are my bones

and it doesn’t sit right.

and the label is itchy.

no. you don’t fit me.

nights are better here,

nights are

re-run comfortable.

un-mundane. 

sofa sleep.

sunken in,

drink, and drunk.

strobelit motes and

stammered names

etched into ashtrays.

you always glamour

your cigarettes to life

with what survived 

of half-alive lighters.

you’re like

a cold-tap cushion

to cotton-mouth kisses.

this is all i need.

it’s such a quiet night.

your cigarette

burns so bright

i swear i can see it

reflected in the sky.

you’re smoking satellites.

the cracks across my garden

match the heart lines on your hands

and flowers only grow there, in the rifts.

spiders sleep in contours

that were crafted on your curves.

paint fades the same shade

as the whites of your eyes.

only yours.