Tuesday, 13 March 2012


The air is razor wire
My skin shreds when
I try to make bridges
out of our forearms

The sun takes a piss
on a cool spring breeze
And the smoke snakes
through our hair as we kiss.

I move to find I am turgid
still a part of the ground
And I let go of loftier ideals
like self-expression and will

The fruit I bear weighs me down
And with mirth, you pick
at the life on my bending boughs
And leave what is left at my feet.

With somber eyes, I think
it's time to admit
what we felt all along.