You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: relationship

Come with me and we will borrow time

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I fell asleep looking at a photograph of your face – your eyes like a slideshow of our lives. Together, we are not awkward like chalk against steel – the squeal of metal.

Rather, our bodies are turn tables scratching at the grooves in each other’s skin – a symphony played by an orchestra of pleasure. The strings pulling our hips; percussion making us swing.

Our tongues as two crossed fingers – folded around each other like tubes of brass bearing the weight against our lips. This beauty-full bassline belts a love that no one will understand.

There is air pushed from our lungs slowing down the clock; seconds match the rhythm of our breathing. Your breath: a fingerprint on the atmosphere conducting ructions when our bodies shake in perfect time sparked by what happens if I did this longer-harder-faster.

And there’s a fine line when it comes…

to borrowing time, so we lock thighs and grind. You sigh as my hand that knows the curvature of your spine guides the glorious climb till we are two tightrope walkers taunting the fragility of notes.

We are high up, but deep inside. Think and jump. Thrilled and terrified.

If you look for us, don’t look up for you will find us below, buried between each other like sheets. This is where my dreams sleep. And I will wake to you like waves stumble effortlessly upon the shore. We will sway day after day – an endless ocean waiting to sink its teeth into the Sahara.

The places I have travelled, you

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You say: you are poetry.

I say: you have me undone in three words.

You say: I don’t know what to say.

I say: don’t say anything.

You say: I am in love with a writer.

I say: I am in love with the sunrise. I am awake.

Like a train frames the movement of a bride on her wedding day,

so the sun only sets to frame the trail you leave in the darkness for me to find my way.

Your eyes. Like fireflies. Vibrant. Alive. Bright.

On my bucket list there stands: see the Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis.

That was before there was an us.

I could look at you and feel like I’d seen the world – like I’d met everyone there was to meet, like I’d tasted India and walked Rome and surfed Fiji and climbed Everest and loved every land I let my feet shake hands with.

Your hands. Like oak tree branches. Strong. They know their place. Safe.

I’m that chocolate lad. Not sweet like you’d think; that was never me.

I am dark, through and through.

I am my darkest when I am with you.

Bitter to those who aren’t accustomed to the taste, but you have let me melt on your tongue,

you have let my tongue melt the creases of your waist, the small of your back…

relax into me. I will hold you safe.

I don’t have fancy words to make you stay.

I don’t have instructions for a bad day.

I don’t know any languages other than my eyes to ask you not to leave.

I’ve never even been overseas.

Right now in this instance, it feels like we’re oceans apart so maybe that counts for something?

So when people ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve seen?

I’ll simply tell them I’ve travelled your spine, and scaled your ribs and held handfuls of breast

that I’m sure even the monks would profess

the gods made just for me.

The magic of Maybe and falling in love

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I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. When I was young I thought I’d never feel these things and now I can’t seem to stop. Stop. Stop? God. Don’t stop. Carry on. A little faster. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop me from falling. I only want to halt when I hit the bottom.

A beautiful, broken, bashful, bandaged, blundering fool of a boy who – despite having crashed from such great heights – still manages to feel like he has too many limbs attached and too many teeth that slow the words or simply stand close enough to remind his lips not to kiss you. Yet.

You’ll think it funny that at the bottom of Maybe I exist between a rock – your grace – and a hard place: this short, tempting and terrifying distance from your face. Maybe you noticed that when I startled and became aware of your eyes tracing my face, I was inexplicably and profoundly attuned to how lost my hands were.

Maybe all of me was lost, because for a good part of the next hour, most of my thoughts skirted the boundary of: “Why does it feel like I have hands for the first time? How do I use them? Do they even work?”

The bashful boy at the bottom of Maybe is quietly conscious of your hands. He wants to hold them just like you’d hold a pen. He wishes he were a pen – tangled in your fingers, chewed on occasionally and used when you needed him like some kind of magic.

I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. But maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s my bashful boyish blessing to keep tumbling – fumbling with my hands, your skin (thin frame) at the mercy of this chaotic descent.

It’s not even dark and I can’t steady the shakes. Maybe I am here alone. Maybe I can love myself without the light.

I am at home when I am drowning

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I am in love with a storm – dark and surly – masquerading as a gentle breeze. It is said that you can’t touch the wind, you can only let it move you. So spread your fingers and let it take you away; it will shift the ground beneath you, it will shake the dust. It will send pieces of you to places you’ve never been.

Let it blow. Bow to its sway.

Do not fear losing yourself. The rain will come in torrents of tears and sadness, looking for light between the clouds. I have learned not to fight the waters as if by struggling I only spur on the turbulence. My body is mostly water; I am one with the flood.

I am at home when I am drowning.

The sound will shatter you. No one will be there to hear the crumbling but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Be wary of this; there aren’t many who can take the same blow twice. Roll with the punches of thunder. Accept that the wind will be knocked from your lungs; you will be knocked off your feet.

Bandage your bruised ribs. Bind your breasts – chest – and absorb the rumble of rage but do not crack. Do not flash. Do not thrash at the ground which carried you this far.

This storm has me completely surrounded and I am swept up in her chaos. I am no afraid despite the wreckage that will collect in its wake. I am my own storm – my own whip of wind and power – so bow to my sway. Bend with these battering gusts or be broken. Do not simply wait for me to pass through.

Come with me and I will move with you too.