It's starting to confuse me,

the fact that Spring will fall into Autumn

like spiderwebs being swept off my ceiling,

so rapidly that when I open my eyes

the seasons will have ducked under me and swapped positions.



I want to colour blanks pages with my hot blood,

and not have to put up with the

depressing, lukewarm, soapy white.

But I don't want to fall through the glass

of my monochrome safety while I still have it.



You wanted me to dye my hair blonde,

but I laughed and tried not to

let myself get stirred up in your expectations.

I know you're gorgeous, but there are

some things I've learnt not to sacrifice.



As the wind laughs across my cheeks, 

I wonder what it would be like to

run my teeth along yours.

I could be your wind.

I wonder what sort of gunk would collect on my teeth.



There are photographs of popcorn on cinema floors,

of the tips of your hair,

of croissants and hot chocolate

pinned on the wall of my mind

because the real things won't fit in my suitcase.

written: Wednesday 25th August 2004, 10:15pm.