tick to-

The clocked never ticked as loudly as it did on the day you left. As if the clock was also bereft.

As if my rhymes and its chimes were the only things that could move us past the tragedy of losing a member of the household. As if the clock, also had a story that needed to be told.

It ticked out of sync with the rest of the clocks, like the pendulum was suffering a severe state of shock and time, suddenly wasn't important. 

As I waved goodbye to the poetry I thought was my calling, the clock waved goodbye, and time started falling. We both developed some mechanical faults in the absence of you. 

good morning, world / clever world

Good morning, world, I say, glumly.

Good morning, girl, the world says back.

While the world wanders around, smugly,

I spend my days looking for what I lack.

A love life, that's complicated. Too much time.

A sex life? That's somewhere, long ago dead.

Some talent, I had it once, had a knack for rhyme,

But when I try to pen a poem, it gets stuck in my head.

Good evening, world, I say, defeated.

Good evening, girl, the world says back. 

World, why do I feel so shamefully conceited?

Girl, why are you always looking for the things you lack? 

stalker

I scrawled across your mirror in black eye-liner.
It was a wonderful surprise for you to find late at
Night, when you got home from your new date.

‘I told you that shirt would look good on you.’

Probably not as surprising as the piece of paper,
Pinned to the back of your bathroom door to talk
To you before you went back to our bedroom.

‘The tie was too much for a first date, though.’

There was a flutter of rage and panic intertwined
As you groped around in your pocket for the key
That you felt sure I had given back to you earlier.

‘Sleep tight.’

I wrote in red lipstick on your sheets.

wasteland

There is the unsettling crunch of something that
Used to be alive, beneath your feet, as you navigate
Throughout the broken chairs. Their tables are
Long missing. There is a discarded picture

Of a couple kissing; God only knows how it found
Its way here. It is faded and torn at the edges;
Representative of how you feel as you shift through
This world and wonder whether anything you see

Is even real. The sky is black, and although you’re
Killing time in the hope that sunlight will attack
You eventually crunch your way through to the
Reality that this world is as good as it gets.

Full of regrets, you question:

How the hell do we escape this wasteland?

snow

The sky is blue until the snow falls. And then
The world becomes a blinding light of a reality
Where daylight seems endless. The clarity of
White forces us to see things

That we aren’t all ready to see. The sprinkling
Turns into the suffocation of a universe and you,
You stand there and watch the snow scatter
Confusion across your landscape. And you
Thoroughly dread the day

When someone walks across your snow.

unfinished reading

On my bed, there is a detective novel entitled The Dead that
I am three chapters into reading; after the boredom of the first
Two, the words are bleeding into each other but, I’m determined
To find out who killed that prostitute.

In the kitchen, balanced on the toaster, is a collection of poetry,
The title of which I forget. I seem to have cherry-picked the best
Bits and discarded the rest with the loose intention of finding out
What the other writers wanted to say.

On the dining room table you’ll find Shakespeare’s Collected Works
That has been treated unkind, the binding is fragile, unstable. I left
It to rest on the table with the intention of finding out if there was
Method in Hamlet’s madness.

On the wall in my study, at eye-level, so when I rise it’s the first
Thing there to greet my eyes is a post-it. Will you ever finish a book? 

to my pet

I may not understand how you sleep for twenty hours out of the
Day but do not for a second think that I judge you for it. If anything,
I adore it. In a similar fashion to how I adore that high-pitched
Bark that emerges from between your square-set jaw every time
I rest a treat on the floor and tell you to wait a second before you
Devour it. Something that I do not adore, but am somewhat
Jealous of, is your ability to find a wonderful scent in the most
Disgusting of things. Your olfactory abilities put mine to shame
And while I breeze through life smelling everything the same, you
Rediscover the smell of grass every time you go outside. In the
Same way you discover the scent of meat every time we sneak
Half of our dinner out of a restaurant for your dining pleasure too.
I swear, you eat better than some humans do. I don’t understand
Dog greeting, and how it becomes appropriate to sniff someone
Else’s junk upon meeting but hey, it’s just your way. I suppose the
Saving grace is that you’re usually the one being sniffed so, at
Least your nose is clean. I love that you have an intrinsic ability to
Just know when one of us needs a reassuring lick on the arm; in
The same way that we know, when you move to the little sofa to
Be on your own, you do not want to be cuddled, but that’s part
Of your charm. I don’t understand how someone who can’t speak
Has become the best company for me throughout the day; how
Someone who doesn’t comprehend language can always pinpoint
The right thing to say; how someone, who isn’t even a someone,
Has become one of my favourite someones in the world. I don’t
Understand how anyone could ever look into those eyes and
Willingly hurt you, or desert you, do anything but love you. I
Don’t understand how we got so lucky, to have such a perfect pet.