nearly two years

there are silent storms,

vast and engulfing, but

please, pretend you don’t

see them. thunder rumbles,

silent as sin and lightning

cracks just as invisibly as

you wish it could, how can

you shut your eyes to the

veritable collapse of these

castles; walls crumble and

the grounds shake but you

stand still, still, remarkably

still, how can I fall when you

are yet to even notice the

rotation of this earth, how can

I move the mountains for you?

How can I be so desperately

concerned while you are so

desperately indifferent, have you

forgotten that this is the end,

have you forgotten that we will

never again be this way, this is

an extinction, the end of the

planet and an era, how can you

fathom the depths of this ocean

when I can’t even sail it on a boat.

This could be the end of forever,

let me know if you

want to change that, I need

you to want to change that, because

I have never tired of you. I have

spent years by your side and have

never learnt to put up a guard, I

would never wish sadness upon

you my dear but please let me

know, let me know that this is

hard for you too, so I can sleep

tonight and every night that we

spend apart, do not leave me to

fight this alone.

I will never

begrudge you, these last six months

where we both knew we were

slow dancing in a burning room,

waiting for the walls to collapse,

there is no moment of this love that

I would regret, I mean how could

I resent a love that was like breathing,

that was like two years of the moment

where you get into bed after a long,

long day, and there is no atom that

could ever want to be

anywhere else.

Perhaps the most disturbing part

of it all, is how suddenly memory

foam turns to concrete, and how

desperately you want those silk

sheets to stop feeling like you’re

lying in tin foil, were you deluding

yourself? No, not at all,

it is remarkable what the human

mind can do when it wants

something to work so badly,

when the overwhelming fear of

failure that you never knew you

had kicks in and all of a sudden

two years have passed.

It is almost shocking, looking

at pictures of you with your head

that some other girl shaved, to think

that I really knew I would marry you

one day, to have laid the stones on

the path to forever, to have almost

set my dreams aside to make space

for yours, to have given up Paris,

New York, New Orleans, for the

little town that existed only in your

mind and your childhood, too small

for a girl who stands 5’10” in stature

and infinite in possibilities.



and so it begins

so many different kinds of days

what it is like to

fight with with the perfect person

to wait and see

just how the days turn out when

you just can’t

ask for anything more. One day

you’ll ask me,

why did you stick around, when

some days, it

felt like each was just harder than the

next. Maybe

it has always been because even

after each time

that I’ve seen you, from that first

day in that first kitchen,

to every day in a kitchen mine or

yours, that even in

my night sky, watching each twinkle

and the gaps between,

all the spaces sing your name, in the

silence and the noise.


How long has it been

since arms have felt 

this much like home,

since hands on waists

spelt out so many words

with every morse code 

tap of finger tips, since

kisses on cheeks made 

so many promises in

so few days, I have my

fingers crossed for his 

promises of tomorrow. 


Icy grey skies are unparalleled delights,

crushing in on a skyline unlike any other,

the dirty light falling like snow into flame-

tinted hair, the cobbled streets a microcosm—

the uneven surface of patchworked

cities made up of every type, or perhaps

of the weather, I feel the shafts of light,

each a different tone and temperature,

flutter erratically on skin so typically pale,


somewhere I fit in.

If I’ve missed the

train home, there’s another in three minutes,

as I lean myself against the departures board,

wrapping and unwrapping the scarf around

my neck, expecting a different gift each time

but always finding the same skin, dotted

red with the delicate paintbrushes of the

Summer chill, the Autumn wind whistling even

in the middle of July, no friend has ever been

more welcome than he. I want to run again

down weatherbeaten paths in the façace that

my grandmothers call Summer, between trees

that still glisten with Spring frost and flowers only

half-formed, as if awoken prematurely, delicate

yawns on fragile petals yet to be unfrozen, trails

dappled with the light of home and pebbles of the