I went to the Irish countryside
to get away from you
To breathe the clearer air in
To breathe you out for good.
Myself, ah, I found myself again!
I found Laughter
a cabin in the woods.
Ireland made me a home,
Because I was never home
In Rathdrum, County Wicklow
A little farm
away from you,
You far away from me.
How refreshing to wake up to birdsong
instead of your mother tongue,
When you would drown me in water kisses.
How you would laugh
as I held my breath
Let me go let me go
let me leave.
You reminded me of a Monday morning cigarette break.
That between awake and asleep
the day away,
With my rolled-up heart
Charred around the edges
for the blackness
That came with your presence.
Your kiss with its darkness
And your charcoal throat
The same warmth
that arrived with a raspy inhalation
of smoke through nose to chest,
My tar lungs and cigarette breath.
Burnt out amber
Of orange and black
Sparks against pavement,
The miniature fireworks
Under my fake Laboutin shoe.
You were my
Narcotic, Insomniac Addiction
Darling, Come Monday morning,
I thought of you.
“Am I still your favourite person?”
I asked, eyes wide,
Arms wrapped behind my back like folded
Can you unfold me and
tug at the frayed edges until we forget they existed,
Kiss me clean.
“Am I still your favourite person?” I ask,
Or just forgotten
Paris was vibrant,
the outskirts, charcoal.
In dark corners
the women in red
lifted skirts for men in top hats.
was a demi-monde beauty,
scarlett dressed and wide-eyed,
They called her,
The men with grasping hands
who were always hungry.
An animal appetite
behind human eyes
A beast in a suit.
If you listened carefully you could almost hear a hint of a growl
from the corner of his mouth
The sweat on his brow
with a lipstick blood handkerchief
Before he returned home to his wife.
The silk strings on Manon’s corset were
Ready for eager fingertips,
That were too rough.
I always thought we’d find our way back together, somehow, sometime, someplace. And we did. But we were older and we had changed.
You had made me cold.
You left. You were always good at walking away.
You did not look back this time.
You should have told me that you wanted to fight.
I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.
You were all scruffy hair and spectacles
at the end of your nose,
all classic novels
and 20 cups of tea
to keep you going
your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk
with your ink-stained finger tips.
I inspired you, you had said
and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,
Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs
wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter
jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,
with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,
I am certain,
I wasn’t a writer,
Until you inspired me.