You are unable to sleep, so you sit up and write, the next morning, you awaken to realise you had being asleep the whole time.

(so i guess i wank without noticing i do so which sucks)

Outside my window, you look so beautiful standing stoic in the rain. Left unsheltered by the leafless trees, the drips that drape you that quiver and glimmer. You are incandescent against the all else grey. To this cataclysmic splatter, I reach out to touch and as my warm tingled fingers press the glass it appears to melt liquotic, it ebbs and flows within itself for a split eternity. Only to pause as finale, it drizzles into oblivion with a shrill.


I step out. I stand to join you under the deluge. You resist my offer of the moth eaten umbrella. And so we stand. Kindred in our cold. Frozen hands clasped.
It’s miserable, so unnecessary, we laugh.

By candles in bed with sheets crumpled and empty, banality is charm , cancer and qualm. You are the moon, you are its fire. Your breath burns the nape of my neck.

The constant streetlamp, slats through the blinds. I try to sleep but your inconstancy prises apart my eyes.
There are streets and moss I tread carefully. And steeples and fences I climb relentlessly. There are glimpses I catch fleetingly then forget. The drone of the traffic will hum about my ears.

It is all, all this, at my fingers, but escapes their malleability
My chest will expand and then rest, I will grab your arm and press your pulse.