Frayed. Woodsy….

I seem to have spent the best moments of my life writing you.

I am an archive now, handwritten in you –

a spellbound moon,

orbiting the beacon lights of your heart,

or a wayward star,
an echo of all those little galaxies we used to ride,

back when small getaways were a thing…

back when the Universe was just a touch and a whisper away…

and you were the shores.

I am a smoke stack now,

a deep sea chimney,

melting gemstones beneath the sea –

feeding on your warmth as the core grows cold.

I am frayed now –

frayed and worn,

just as you were,

by all those harsh and killing things

the world has whittled in our eyes –

looking always to you,

the champion of paper aeroplanes,

to stitch back the thermals and weave back my wings.

I’m a deep sea chimney,

billowing stars,

watching them float into cloudlight and space fish…

watching our stories get eaten,

tangled in margins,

crumpled like shells…

watching an army of throwaway doodles

blot out your smile,

gun down my hope

and then despise me for losing your kindness.

I am an echo of starships and you,

wondering why our victory has been stolen

by a world that always twists our tides

and wants us to live them the wrong way round.