Posts Tagged ‘Romance’

Even in your loneliest nights,
When the silence screeches in your ears,
The sky can deliver you love,
In the form of a cerulean comet,

An evanescent light in the sky,
Streaking across your eyes like a pleasing form,
The shape of a paramour,
Painted in azure trails,

This falling star,
It burns white-hot,
Like the throes of frenetic passion,
It conjures images of trysts and new families,

But comets are only brief interlopers,
And if you don’t grab it,
Pluck it from the universe,
It’ll pass by at light speed,

And proceed to the orbit of another.

These scars left upon me,
Each papercut from a photograph,
Each tear drawn from a fond anecdote,
Or the sting of a familiar song,
They’re biting heirlooms of a time long gone,
A man long dead,
And the wraith who loved him,

As the events of those golden days fade,
As the flower petals moulder,
And tender gifts are consigned to the loft,
I’m left with the immaterial pangs,
The true souvenir of a heartbreak,
Physical knick-knacks have their sway,
But the upset is the real memento.

After that Oppenheimer blast,
That argument of explosive parameter,
Followed by a shockwave of deafening silence,
There comes the nuclear winter,
A fallout of two suitors,

It’s a boreal wasteland resembling the space before,
A toxic space without light or love,
Replete with the radiation of resentment,
A shattered ruins of love nests,
There is no warmth to be gleaned,

And like that bomb,
This is no natural event,
Hearts like atoms must touch,
This cold is the stuff of sorrow,
And a winter that could last millennia.

The end growled,
So I put on some body armour,
A flimsy stab vest,
To protect me from the bite of her exit,
And indeed did a knife come,
Sharp as a sour tongue,
And heated red in a lovers forge,
An anvil rendered mute thereafter,
There was no malice in the blades drive,
Nor the hand behind it,
Just a soul scorned,
My vest prevented a terminal break,
But the strike bruised all the same,
Freezing a heart in its cell,
Forever more.

The other night,
I made a scrapbook from the pieces of us,
Memories put on to parchment,
Crumpled photos and lingering gazes,
Tufts of hair and smiles around campfires,
Receipts and candlelit dinners,
It’s all that remains of us,
Existing only in paper and glue,

This scrapbook,
It has grown to be a cat o’ nine tails,
Papercuts and stinging eyes,
It hurts parts of me immaterial,
Every fibre of my being,
Yet the memories on those pages,
They’re the reason I don’t give in,
And throw it into the fire.

You and I,
We kneel spent,
In this field of embers,
An array of flowers once danced here,
But now all is charred and grey,
This love burned us,
Resting in each others doting hearths,
We are scalded by one another’s conflagrations,

We knew no frost,
We were so enamoured by the heat,
We forgot flames are a force of destruction,
We tried our best,
But it was inevitable,
No matter how pure,
It had to be eased to embers,
For a fire is destined to be put out.

From this lethargic window,
I often look up at the sky,
Tracing dreams in the clouds,
And I see those birds,
Vibrant flocks eloping to freedom,
They leave little pinions of colour,
Like love letters with no recipient,
A rain of sentiment in myriad pigment,

Each feather tells a story,
Of grief and bliss and love,
Recited as I run my finger across,
Silent but clear as day,
The birds fly on lighter,
I’m left behind in the grey,
With this plumage of fables cast off,
A mottle they needed to disperse to reach paradise.

We met upon the face of the moon,
And yet we felt far from alien,
Talk flowed like cider,
And affection persisted like cigar smoke,

A dose of gorgeous hot chocolate,
An ochre beauty,
Piercings and lightning bolts,
Something of a novel experience for this clown,

A royal flush of nightlife fate,
I didn’t expect to meet you,
A new empress,
Or the closest a serf could expect,

That night.

Do you ever wonder what a fireplace sees?
From its brickwork oubliette,
Blushing in its soft heat,
What secrets it bears witness to,
The feelings put out into the universe,
Caresses and kisses upon the shaggy rug,
The hidden trysts before its flame,
The small moments meaning the most,
A living room rising to its name,

This choleric witness,
Do you think it laughs?
Fire displaying its cruel nature,
Flickering in hilarity,
With its charcoal friends,
Or maybe it tries to warn them?
Crackling in its mayday throes,
Energetic yet impotent,
Within its hearth prison cell.

In the autumn of our time,
She left me with this necklace,
Her terminal gift,
This stalwart pendant,
A cross upon my back,

This icon was bestowed under pretence of love,
A scathing symbol of your thoughts,
Reminder of the hopes you had for me,
Hopes I dashed,
Leaving a sterling silver wound,

This metal lion,
A hollow king,
It once touted strength,
But now is a reminder of failure,
So its jaws constrict my neck.