you’re too young to die.

dad said something about us all being stardust
so maybe that’s you now?
or maybe you’re swirling.
i want to believe in something other than darkness forever.

i imagine you as a feeling
i imagine you as the feeling of sudden elation
you’re synapses
you’re things i’ve not even heard of.

you’re the smell of babies and fresh hedges
you’re my heart feeling like it’s about to explode with sadness
you’re my chest expansion
you’re your accidental death and my wish more than anything to rewind time and say, “please, don’t”.

you’re the empty voids i stare into now while i experience elevated existentialism
you’re my life changed forever
you’re too young to die.

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Strings Attached.

There are strings as far as the eye can see,
Between you and me.
They disappear around corners,
They wrap around memories I vaguely remember existing.
There are clusters of webs in the streets between our houses where we walked, ate, kissed
And there are long silky chords through routes in Soho and Peckham
Stretching and expanding
Reaching out.
And you are the at the end of the strings
Like a dog walker at the helm of unruly animals
Cutting them and expelling them
While I tug-of-war them just to get close to you.

Stardust (draft 1)

Another night in the Midlands after a heavy weekend of drugs

and you are there to catch me in fresh bed linen, a square meal and cups of tea in bed.

Reminds me – You were there to catch me when I learned to ride a bike. One hand a foot behind my back.

Very little is said about the past, now we talk about the future.

You bring it up like it’s around the corner, crack open another bottle of gin and talk about big things like we’re going down in a plane crash.

Listen, I still can’t bring myself to tell you how much heartache you caused while we bounced between three houses more than a decade ago.

When you disappeared we scooped her up, brought her back from the edge and guided her back to the light.

You’re welcome.

In my experience people who talk about death feel it coming

Feel it’s weight heavy on the brain.

You cried once when you had cancer

Even those who struggle to open up do one day

What’s it really worth now anyway?

At some point in the future you’ll just be stardust.

You’ll be chairs, paper, hair follicles, cotton; twinkling, burning, drifting. Ephemeral.

I look around the living room and feel weightless on the sofa.

You gulp down the remainder of your gin and switch the TV on.

Brian Cox and his Wonders of the Universe

As we watch the swirling beautiful world in silence

You turn to me and say,

“We are all stardust. You. Me. That sofa. Everything.”

Oh god, tell me it’s ok.

Look for the blackest thing and pick it out

I bet it’s a hairdryer

Yes, I am eating alone at this restaurant

And yes, I do like the feeling of being punched in the face

Did I tell you?

There are words for things I don’t even know about yet

Which is distressing because I want to know everything immediately.

Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether being alone is good or bad because it can be both, surely.

Do you understand?

Writing in first person is all I know because I’ve never been anyone else.

The feeling of walking into a room and forgetting what you went in for is how I feel about life now.

Oh god, tell me it’s ok.

The Mighty Catfish.

The mighty catfish sunk to the floor

It sunk so far it could go no more

And then one day it saw the light

Saw the light and decided to fight.

It raised one whisker up from the sea bed

Raised it way, way above it’s head.

It said, “Hey World, I think it’s time

To stand up and to take what’s mine!”

And sooner or later it was flying high

Flying high in the media industry up in the sky.

Dirty, filthy.

I can’t come if you tell me to. Something about the words makes it filthy and I’m transported. Girls are flashing their assholes and biting their lips somewhere and I’m dry as a corpse now.

There was a time I wanted to have a baby with you until the assholes, and the lip biting, and the blowjob history, and the trust smashed in like a corner shop window, midwinter.

Don’t you know I’m not present. I’m no present for anyone. I’m a bored housewife without the house or the wife part. Waiting for the postman to ring the door bell and sort me out. Send in that long-awaited rush of blood. Give me a hit. Pull me apart, shine up the rust, and put me back together.