I used to write love poems
the morning after.
Filled with good intent,
a curious, creeping
delusion of having grasped something
unknowable till then
would beat my heart
to pulp until I had to grab
the sticky organ and daub the words in,
Make something lasting.
It was some time before
I gave this habit up.
It took a few leavers to squeeze the
need out of me.
Or not the need, but the compulsion;
dulled and muddied by the inevitable
renege, apology, pall of
backing slowly off.
As though I were a corpse
they'd brought to life
in the night's light, but in the morning
their realisation at the loathesome tint of grey
around the mouth they kissed
threw them backwards with a shock
they could not let me see
in full, just yet.
Last night, there was a little opening made
I am scared to see it there;
it looks so tender and new, a winter bud
and the world's cold.
I am drinking tea at your computer
while you sleep, my hands alight with the
fire of fear. My keystrokes falter.
I wonder if your hand flexes, if it grips
the upswing of another shoe
This is not a love poem.
No, this is not.