prosetry

Man On The Moon

​On nights like this I often wonder where you are. I never had to wonder this before because I always knew where you were. But the fact that I don’t know where you are anymore means that I shouldn’t be wondering about you in the first place.

Tonight the air is still and the city is still and I still miss you. Love and hate share the same propinquity that our bodies once did. But I think that even if you were here next to me, you’d feel a million miles away. You always were my man on the moon.

But you are not here with me tonight and this truth serves as a painful reminder to me. Your absence should remind me not to waste my wondering, wandering, wonderful mind on futile thoughts of you.

I don’t want to wonder about you, about your new life without me, but it’s so hard – the memories that are the easiest to remember are the hardest to forget, they’re the hardest to erase. Why should I wonder about you? After all, you don’t wonder about me on nights like this. You probably do not wonder about me at all.

I no longer occupy your heart and yet you still occupy my late-night mind. That is the greatest injustice in my private universe. And yet still I wonder if, secretly, you still wonder about me on nights like this.

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prosetry

Another Time At Camden Lock

It’s a strange feeling, this. To be left alone in the middle of a crowd, to be abandoned by people that I’ve never met. The sun disappears and so do the strangers, and I sit cross-legged on the harsh concrete edge, lockside for the thousandth time, with my purple lipstick and my white wine eyes, wearing a garnet ring that was prised off the finger of a dead woman, with not even my faithful moon for company, and if I told you that I feel alive, it would be a lie, one greater than the lie I told you last night, the one that you will cling onto for the rest of your life, the one about loving you, the one about trusting you, the one promising not to die too soon.

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prosetry

Bloody Mary

Remember that time
Sunday afternoon
when you wound me up
over I-can’t-remember-what
so I tipped my Bloody Mary
over your head
and the celery stick
landed so pathetically
on the floor
by your feet
that we just had to
laugh hysterically
perfectly.

Remember that time?
then I ordered
another Blood Mary
and poured it
over my own head
and those celery sticks
crunched under our feet
as we kissed perfectly
hysterically.

“You’ve got tomato juice on your trainers.”
“Well, you’ve got tabasco on your tits.”

I haven’t ordered another Bloody Mary since.

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art, fiction

How Do You Know if You Love Someone?

One of the most classic and clichéd questions is how to know if you love someone, so, I found myself, drunk with sleeplessness–trying to figure out some reasons, the first and most obvious being,

when I think of this question, I think of you.

If I were stuck as a fish forever, I’d want you to be a mermaid–

When I think of you, it is not a memory. It is a feeling, a touch, a taste, a smell; it is the way my body reacts to the idea of you.

Whenever I see something in a store, my mind tries to find any way to connect it to you, in the hopes that giving it to you might bring you some sort of joy.

I worry about getting drunk–or deliriously tired, and randomly asking you to marry me.

Some songs remind me of you–without ever having heard them before.

When I let my mind wander, it wanders over to you.

The idea of losing you feels like being on the edge of a waterfall–deafeningly loud, standing on a wet, flat stone.

I cannot trust myself to write anymore because love is like falling, and no one ever thinks too clearly when they’re falling.

So, you will just have to stay as a mermaid while I drift off to sleep.

 

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poetry

How to Steal the Sun

I fashioned her a heartstring harness
and asked her to jump
and she did –
into the beds
of prettier men.

I asked her once more.
and she did –
but this time,
onto a plane,
unravelling the gossamer
as it flew.

But I remember –

how she had
plucked
the sun,
as if it were some shiny fruit,
and,
caressing it,
showed me
that it didn’t have to burn;

it was poignant
and fleeting –
like her smell,
which had refused to stain my sheets
and clothes.

She left,
promising
to love me tomorrow,

and when she did,

I forgot –
how tomorrow would come around,
with the sun
sitting snug in her back pocket?

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