I lie here and try to sleep in a room I don’t recognise. Over three thousand nights I have lain in this spot and drifted. The same as the number of miles that keeps me from you.
Yet today it is different. Because today it is not home, it is not my sanctuary, where every item tells me a story. Where every ticket stub or poster or receipt lovingly pinned to my wall has its own meaning. Now I look at the walls, bare and empty, and the shelves also the same.
Now I feel between places, like a cat, sitting on a fence, sitting on a ledge, standing on the doorway, neither in nor out, a little Schrodingeresque because right now I defy being in a certain state.
Until you look inside and know for sure, I am both places at once,
both - and so, neither.
I will find that belonging place again someday but for now I am content to just
sit and wait
on the fence.
Time is moving all too fast as of late, I’ve noticed. I almost forget when I am, from time to time, because if it were up to me, I would still be five years old, without a care or a worry. Except that I always say that, and I realise that I am lying, because the books I’ve read and the people I’ve met and the poems I’ve written all matter. They do. I am a different person.
I constantly have trouble relating to things that I did barely a year ago because I would never do them now, so much have I changed. I heard once that every few years you are literally a completely different person, because your entire physiological makeup is always changing, your cells constantly dividing and dying. Irrespective of the scientific significance of such a statement, I like the metaphorical resonance behind it, because I feel it relates to me very strongly.
I am not who I was yesterday.
I met someone new. Or I drew something cool. Or I learned something interesting. I am not who I was yesterday, and tomorrow, the me that is writing this will cease to exist. And that is terrifying, because if I listen closely I can almost hear myself slipping out of existence. But it is also heart-crushingly, achingly beautiful. Every day, a chance to change, to be different, to take a new step. And if that isn’t just the most lovely thing you ever heard, then I don’t know what is.
I see it every day, you know.
Every time I phone home,
I see it,
enough so that it’s sort of
blurred into the background.
I think I needed a picture
of my home for caller ID.
And of course, when I look at you there’s home.
So it’s only natural
that you should be in this photo.
I never stop to think about that day
or stop to think about the way you’ve changed.
I want you to find it
Stumble across it
See it and remember
Who you are, and who you were
because maybe you’ve forgotten.
I want you to look at it
and not recoil from the person you once were.
Because I loved you then, and I love you now.
If anyone saw it, it would mean nothing
A red brick house, with flowers climbing up the sides
And you, standing there
Your arms in the air
Pure unbridled joy on your face.
I want you to remember that joy
And not focus on the change, because
that happiness was real.
But for now, it is for no one’s eyes but mine.
I will see it when I phone home now, and
every time for the rest of my life.
I like to see you smile
to see roses blossom on your cheeks
to see those lines in the corners
of your eyes
which you hate because
you say you look old.
but fuck that
because I like to see you smile.
And in the bleak lamplight,
I look, and you are
beautiful beyond words.
the light illuminates it all:
the pores, the unkempt hair,
the twelve-hour-shift eye-shadows
(and not the kind you apply with a brush)
you are more lovely
than I have ever seen you.
you fall into my arms, and
I feel you.
All of you.
The stars have aligned tonight, my friend
You tell me you don’t see it, but it’s
there, clear as night
Can’t you see it? there’s the hand,
and there’s the smile,
and there’s the love I feel for you.
Do you see the constellation now?
Can we stargaze again together sometime?
I can feel you.
In every leaf on every tree
and every bead of dew on every blade of grass
I can feel you with every step, with every thud
of muscle forcing blood
out through my veins.
When I feel numb, I can feel you.
Only you, and that is enough.
The world is monochrome today
when nothing is as it seems
and everything bursts at its seams
tonight, I will have technicolour dreams.
I don’t care about form or any of that stuff when I’m writing. I just let my hands take me wherever they want and if I like it, I post it. And if I don’t like it, I still post it.
I let my writing tell a story of what’s going on in my head.
So I don’t worry too much about form because it always makes me feel.