not my things

there are seven deer
and sixteen swans
dancing atop her bedside table
in the room that is not mine
but is trying to be filled with my things

my things are not really my things at all
they are a collection of things i could not leave in one country
somethings are very special
not because of what they are
but because of how they came to be
the things in this
not my room
in this
not my house
i am slowly coming to terms with the fact
in essence
i really own nothing
except the thoughts in my head
which of late seem stolen and regurgitated
like bird food
i hope one day
i will know what it is to earn something
and in earning
truly own
however important that is.

upon waking on your birthday

today i woke knowing what my day lacked before i'd the chance to change it

having found comfort in the idea that time had the ability to dilute the strongest of emotions

i was unpleasantly surprised

and have found

as though by some ill magic

i am once again

waking and once again learning

you are gone

and yet it is still your birthday

NMSP

no
more
sad
poems

my sweet friend across the sea

a letter is sent to you

you see it on the floor

by the door

beside the table

upon the rug

the handwriting

easily recognisable

and yet

it will stay on the floor

until you are ready

to know

all i want to tell you

how much i miss you

how much i need to hear back

just to know

all that was

all that has changed

and all that remains

of my sweet friend

across the sea

a hand scribbles something down
on a napkin in a busy cafe
inspired or just bored
i cannot tell
how is it you write
what you write?
or who is it you want to read it?
i must believe
what you say
still imaging what you really think
leaves me afraid
what might you say
if i ever think to ask
what i cannot promise burns holes in me
what i cannot say
sits waiting on my tounge
for all my excuses
for this silence i have none

asking of whole

is it
you are
not half
not a third
not even a quarter
of the man i thought you were?

or

is it
i am
not half
not a third
not even quite a quarter
of the girl
you could ever hope to love?

my indifference
is not half
not a third
nor nearly a quarter
of what it should be

sisters