I walked so far away from you

and your deep, cement eyes, but I

never forgot one footstep printed in them.

My own footsteps on loose ground

reminded me of the replicas of my soles

that I left in your hard eyes.



Your eyes were so thick with set

grey plaster that I was surprised

I had stepped heavily enough to imprint on them.



I missed every single line of you,

and I kissed the rim of wine glasses 

that clinked together like your teeth

but it never felt quite the same.

My fist through the glass hurt like

the cyst in my heart that I wanted

to burst to expose my secrets, longings, pains.



The size of your record next to mine

makes me want to scour the skies

with my eyes instead of yours,

and pick out all the glamorous lies.



But that blueness is too wide,

and being so far from you I have no guide.

Every day my tongue just burns

and my lips are fried.

I'm locked in this box.

My gold, the flames fly in flocks.



Your concrete eyes torment me

while I'm trapped in my void,

every globule of cold destroyed.

Just to feel our words connect again,

would correct every aching cell of pain.



I hear your whispers inside my mind,

hissing violently, tempting me.

My fingers throb with perfumed desire,

straining to feel your cold, cemented presence.



Maybe if I board the next flight to Paris

I could escape the wrath of your

freezing particles, and the agonising heat of my withdrawal.



Or, even better,

I could be close enough to feel the

faint, icy mist of your breath.

written: Tuesday 31st August 2004, 9:46pm.