Our Dead-End RomanceIt wasn’t a romantic setting.
We were crouched together in the alleyway behind McGregor’s pub
where smells of substandard alcohol and cigarette smoke stained the air
and the muffled song of drunks could be heard from inside, seeming to leak through the walls.
Only, those weren't things I noticed that night.
Instead, I noticed the smell of his cologne,
a smell I recognised only from chilly days on the beach.
Like sea salt blown through cold wind,
and I noticed the sound of his steadfast breaths:
hot and sharp, but reliable; comforting.
As I buried myself in the radiating folds of his shirt
he whispered that I was his world
and so, one day, he would give me the whole world in return.
I just shook my head
because I didn't want it.
Just him, always him.
GlassI always laugh when you refer to me as glass.
Not just because of the way you say it,
Or because I know it's a crack at my fragility.
Glass is pure.
I am like granite -
my body nullified from too many clashing traits.
Glass is transparent.
I am like clay -
illegible from all the plastered smiles.
Glass is unyielding.
I am like chalk -
easily broken and scuffed away by meagre things.
Glass is hung up on walls and in great cathedrals,
tinted for enhancement, but only ever painted on by fools.
I am hidden behind keypads and camera lenses,
coated in a thick paste of deceptiveness.
No, my love,
I was never glass. (Despite my fragility)
Call me granite or clay or chalk
and be done with me.
Haikus are Too ShortHaikus are too short,
To be at all worth clicking,
So I'll write some more.
These words are filler,
So I don't feel truly bad,
For writing briefly.
I write re Haikus
In a Haiku, how clever!
I'm showing off now.