You’re the pollen to my bee,
The salt to my sea,
The jam to my bread,
The thoughts in my head.
You’re the ink to my pen,
The blanket to my den,
The shoe to my shine.
I love it that you’re mine.


“You look better with a bit of weight on”

You smile and nod quickly,
Tight, forced. 
Throw a small laugh over your shoulder.
Walk fast,
Feeling eyes on you,
Your new found waddle and gait.

Know that the tears will come.
And you will pine for the old you,
Your child’s body,
Ribs and thin limbs,
Translucent skin,
They wrote poems about beings like you, 

She’s still in there.
And soon you’ll crave for her,
Call to her
And it will happen again.

You’ll let her out,
Tuck yourself back in.

TV show

TV shows a holiday show.

I close my eyes to get closer.
Feel the water wet, waves washing.
Grains of sand ingrained into feet.
Sunshine shining on brown skin.
Green palms whispering psalms on the tropical breeze.

I never wanted to travel.

But even being alive
Feels like a life not lived,
Watching stunning scenes on a small screen.

One day, I’ll pack that suit in a suitcase.

That look

That look you gave me.
Squashed against stranger.
Daily commute,
hot writhing and sharp elbows.

That look,
as you tried desperately try to read the news,
paper held close, tight, folded.
Nearly smudging ink across your angry face,
carriage so tightly packed.

That look.
One glance tells a thousand stories.
Big city blues.
You’re not married.
Several failed relationships.
You hate your empty, cold one bedroom flat.
You’re lonely. 
And you’re furious, furious
that the only meagre piece of human contact,
the only time you feel another’s warmth,
another body
pressed hot to yours
is a strangers on a train.