rascal me
I was trying to write the shortest poem
only to wake up this morning
and find my heart smiling
realising no poem would be shorter
than when –eyes closed– I pull you a little closer
to whisper on your lips
almost nothing
(oh, that sweet fragile warmth of morning closeness)

a memory of you crept under my dreams earlier
stared intently
almost demanding I let go and
fall into some half-remembered story
beneath your pillow
and so I'm taken, lying next to you
we take a moment – we smile into each other's eyes
(a stolen hour, a perhaps-gift)

and then you're gone

(I don't know why, but this is how much you disarm me
like this, you disarm me)

life threw a crystal vase at us


and we
hands-in-pockets we
caught mid-sentence, unprepared

a split second too hesitant -
the vase, now, a million shards between us

like a joke that didn’t quite work
an uneasy moment of what-do-we-do-now

(nobody gave me a handbook
on how to be human)

all I know
is I want to feel my heart
skip a beat
as we lift our gaze
and meet each other
and smile wryly

and tacitly agree to catch it
catch the next one
knowing that all we need
is to spend more time
talking less
in that delicate hinterland
between touch
and poetry

like a late summer sunset's gentle light
lands on the leaves of some birch
preparing for autumn

like a gull caresses the wind
and glides, not quite seriously towards
not quite somewhere

I want to hold you and touch you
let my fingers run across the skin of your naked back
feel your heart in my eyes and say

almost nothing
and slowly, vaguely, melt in that intense lack of words
that no song prepared me for

no poem offered to help me understand
how to untangle your loving eyes
from mine

oh how endless that moment will be
an ecstasy of soft sensations
the heart's subtle fireworks

and that little space between us
all the magic of the world is there
glimpsed at in those small hours of the evening

between an almost-kiss
and a half-whispered goodbye
that memory of tomorrow sits in my fragile words

as I try (oh, believe me I try!)
to figure out what this is all about
but I can't

all I know is I want to hold you
to hold you deep in my arms, and our moment
to be a metaphor for something more real

a poetry of life
danced in each other's hearts
(unspoken)

I have reasons to believe blue must be a lonely colour.

Not only because it is the colour of the sky, the sea, of such vastness that no other colour can compete against.
Not even because it is the colour of sadness. (one has the "blues", not the "greens")

But rather, I think that blue is a lonely colour
mostly because


it was the last colour to be named.

the spacing


of

words





an invitation


to
surprise


lost

(
in
the
)



maze of




meaning..




where
is




the



honest beautyof


simply




arranging







things?

a familiar little melancholy kicks in

like the last couple of puffs of a joint being passed around
a group of good friends

now it's just my turn
(nothing more, nothing less)

the tips of my fingers tingling with reality
as memories gently stir that line between the conscious
and the unconscious


like a half-remembered song
sitting somewhere between your lips
and nothing


it's as if I made eye contact with the city
for the first time
and fallen in love (again)
with its every move
its every smile

the way it sleeps


the harrowing complexities accompanying
the feeling of leaving a place
that's just started feeling like home


(daydreaming about London
in London.)