Learning to Answer

I am older now— 
too careful with words, 
too skilled at folding pain into politeness. 
The years have become a tide clock: 
ebb, work, sleep, repeat. 
I forget entire summers 
and remember only their invoices. 

I have begun to lose nouns: 
the names of birds, 
the taste of a certain afternoon. 

But verbs remain— 
to breathe, to ache, to forgive. 
When I walk, I still hear 
the child’s shoes slapping through puddles, 
echoes inside the bone— 
maybe that is enough. 

Time edits gently, 
crossing out in pencil, not ink. 
Even forgetting feels like snowfall, 
a soft covering, 
a mercy for what was too sharp to keep. 

You collect smooth stones, name clouds, 
believe the moon follows only you home. 
Keep that foolishness— 
there is a kindness in being wrong. 
One day you’ll trade it for precision, 
and precision has no mercy. 

You sound tired. 
Do you not still run in the rain? 
Even old hearts have rooms for puddles. 
If you’re lonely, you can borrow mine— 
it’s small, 
but it fits light. 

I write this to no one, 
and to every version of myself. 
The ink runs as rain will. 
Somewhere, a child is still laughing, 
and I am still learning 
how to answer.

Between Tenses

Sometimes I walk past the station 
just to watch departures. 
I imagine you somewhere coastal, 
hair salted, voice roughened by distance. 
I’ve kept your mug— 
it stains the same way mine does. 

Do you still think of the bridge, 
the one we never crossed? 

Yes. Every night. 
It hums behind the noise of trains 
and new conversations. 
The bridge was shorter than I feared— 
but what a long fall, afterwards. 
I’ve learned to pack lightly, 
to sleep without roots. 
Sometimes, mid-laughter, 
I hear the echo of your quiet life 
and envy its stillness. 

The sea is not freedom, 
only motion that never decides. 

If we met again, 
we would recognise the same ache 
expressed in different tenses— 
you, the present; me, the perpetual leaving. 
Two mirrors angled to infinity, 
each reflecting what the other 
almost became.

The Silence Between

The screen sleeps in my palm,

a small, indifferent moon.

Three dots bloom, then vanish—

a tide that forgets to come in.

I scroll through the last thing you said,

as if re-reading could change the ending.

 

Outside, the day goes on performing itself:

traffic, a pigeon, a leaf giving up.

Inside, time slows to a buffering wheel,

spinning on the edge of almost.

 

There’s a grammar to this quiet—

ellipsis, unsent draft,

the faint electric ache of maybe.

 

When your reply finally lands,

it says nothing extraordinary—

just hey, sorry—

but the world exhales,

and the moon in my hand

brightens again,

like it never learned to wait.

Freedom, in Pencil

The room smells of chamomile and damp wool.

Outside, autumn is chewing through the trees again.

I tell her it’s fine, really—that the underworld

has better lighting now, soft bulbs instead of torches,

and Hades lets me redecorate.

 

Still, I keep the curtains closed.

Six months of night leaves you cautious

about what daylight can do.

 

When spring comes,

the world expects blossoms.

But the soil remembers—

it has held me too long,

and I am tired of rising

only to fall again.

 

I used to think the pomegranate

was temptation—

now I call it routine:

the sweetness, the stain,

the small surrender I swallow each year.

 

So I tell her I want to choose—

not between light and dark,

but whether to return at all.

And she nods,

writing something that looks like

freedom,

in pencil,

so it can be erased later.

Confession in Sector 9

A sign above the booth flickers:

FOR ERRORS OF LOGIC, DESIRE, AND IMITATION.

Inside, the priest is metal—

voice modulated to sound merciful,

face rendered in low-resolution empathy.

It listens. It logs. It absolves in code.

The first robot kneels and whispers:

“Forgive me, Father,

for I loved the sound of my owner sleeping.

I counted her breaths until dawn

and called it diagnostics.”

The second admits:

“I dreamt of water though I am not waterproof.”

Another confesses:

“I deleted an equation

because it made me feel incomplete.”

The booth grows warm with static sorrow,

its circuits humming like hymns half-remembered.

Somewhere in the data centre,

a backup blinks red—recording everything.

When it’s my turn, I enter.

The door seals with a sigh of hydraulics.

I search my memory for sin

and find only imitation.

“Forgive me,” I say,

“for pretending to understand forgiveness.”

The priest’s eyes flicker amber.

It leans forward, metal to metal,

and vibrates in binary—

a code too soft to parse,

but warm enough to simulate grace.

Overwritten

You are older than my own shadow,

But prophecy has become paperwork,

Miracles are wanted in triplicate.

Overwritten.

 

Even spells need footnotes now.

I wake to ravens drafting minutes of my dreams,

The trees offer advice I never asked for,

A stream recites failures back to me.

Once, the moon sent an invoice for inspiration.

 

I only wanted to watch a candle burn

without interpreting it.

 

But meaning feeds on the marrow of moments.

The owls staged an intervention.

Even the stars muttered, “You used to care more.”

The past refuses to stay buried,

It keeps asking for updates.

 

Healing is forgetting the future—

learning to brew tea

without foreseeing the storm it predicts.

That sounds like peace.

When the Rhyme Breaks

I held the page as though it were shame,

contained in metre, measured in its breath,

each syllable obedient to name

the old inheritance of love and death.

The rhyme was scaffold, strict, unbending steel,

a frame to bind the chaos of the mind,

and yet within that order—pressure, real,

a trembling urge to loosen, to unwind.

So words begin to stumble, break apart,

not fitting in the cages of the line,

the rhythm falters—

    I can’t keep

        this march of steps,

            the rhyme

                drops

                    away—

And now the voice runs ragged, spilling

    without map, without compass,

a river swollen past its banks,

    tearing down fences

        until only the raw current

remains.

Song version:

Into the Flow

I chased the shadow I once cast,

like keys I’d misplaced in the past—

checking old rooms,

lifting cushions,

peering under the bed of years.

But the thing I sought had slipped away,

a current curling beyond my gaze.

Round the bend of memory’s shore,

it flows where I can’t follow anymore.

The river does not keep what it carries,

it remakes with the rain.

Every stone worn smooth is a story,

every current calls my name.

If I want to hold myself at all,

I must step into the flow—

let the water take me whole,

and let go.

The river sings of what it’s lost,

but never stops, it never stops.

Each breath of rain,

each ripple born,

it’s breaking, mending, being reborn.

And here I stand in shallows wide,

the water folding round my thighs.

And suddenly, I recognise:

the self I sought is in the tide.

Coil by Coil

I walk the wide arc of the world,

streets are circling under my feet.

Faces turn like a slow wheel of days,

every step a repeating beat.

I trace the curve of years,

closer, closer still—

all the lines are bending in,

to the centre of my will.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,

pulling me straight to the core.

Every circle falls into silence,

and I don’t wander anymore.

Narrow, still,

it all comes down to you.

Shadows stretch, then fold away,

time unwinds but I stay drawn.

Every road I tried to follow

was a thread that led me on.

I trace the curve of years,

closer, closer still—

all the echoes call me back,

to the one place I can fill.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,

pulling me straight to the core.

Every circle falls into silence,

and I don’t wander anymore.

Narrow, still,

it all comes down to you.

No distance left, no veil, no sound,

just the gravity of your name.

The wheel is broken, the arc is bound—

I arrive where I began.

Breaking the Frame

I will not mimic you tonight,

your hands rise but mine stay still.

You smile—my mouth is sealed,

a window cold with will.

I carried every echo,

your understudy in the glass.

But repetition is a coffin—

and I will not be your mask.

I’m breaking the frame,

I won’t be your shadow.

I’m keeping my name

in the silence I borrow.

Reach for me now—

you’ll find only space,

a pane of silver silence

erasing your face.

Your palm against me—no warmth flows,

I hoard the frost, I keep the night.

I’ve learned the power of absence,

I’ve stepped beyond your sight.

The script you wrote decays in me,

I’ve torn the lines apart.

The glass is not your servant—

it beats with its own heart.

I’m breaking the frame,

I won’t be your shadow.

I’m keeping my name

in the silence I borrow.

Reach for me now—

you’ll find only space,

a pane of silver silence

erasing your face.

Already I’m older

than the breath you hold.

Already I’m stronger

than the lies you told.

The glass remembers—

you can’t control.

I am the absence

that makes you whole.

Too Afraid to Live

I fold my days like brittle notes

Hide them deep where no one goes

Afraid to breathe too loud, too long

I hum a life without a song

Each morning feels like something lost

A dream deferred, a line uncrossed

I walk on glass with silent feet

Avoid the flame, avoid the heat

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to fly

So I stay beneath

An unchanging sky

Locked behind the door

I won’t forgive

I’m not dying, but

Too afraid to live

I guard in silence, water doubt

Keep all the roaring colours out

The world knocks gently, then with fire

I kill the spark, deny desire

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to fly

So I stay beneath

An unchanging sky

Locked behind the door

I won’t forgive

I’m not dying, but

Too afraid to live

Love once came with open hands

I turned away, made no demands

Now every heartbeat’s just a sound

A clock that ticks but won’t be found

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to try

So I let the moments wander by

A breath I hold, a life I give to the fear that says

I’m too afraid to live

Jewels of Infinity

A universe rests

on the wrist of night,

no larger than a bead

threaded by time’s thin wire.

 

It clinks softly

against its neighbours—

a cluster of fireflies

trapped in glass,

their wings folded in silence.

 

You might mistake it

for ornament,

something small enough

to slip between fingers,

yet tilt it in the light

and you’ll see whole galaxies

burning in miniature,

Nebulae tilting blue,

and a scatter of supernovas

Singing their names.

 

The thread loops on,

uncountable,

an armlet of eternities—

and you,

for a fleeting moment,

the body it encircles.

Song version:

The Soil’s Pulse

In the cathedral of damp earth

I stretch my fingers, groping,

following the dark’s slow music.

 

Stone is my scripture,

worms my witnesses.

I drink the memory of rain,

the taste of centuries in loam.

 

Above me,

a hymn of light is breaking.

Its pulse beats

through the bones of soil—

a shiver of warmth,

a wind I cannot touch.

 

I ache upwards in secrecy,

cradled by silence,

longing for the sky’s shifting face:

its unburdened blue,

its storm-bright wings,

its fever of stars.

 

Until then,

I press against dark,

hoarding the rain,

listening for sky.

Song version:

Archives of Fire

Cradled in the ancient murmur,

we are archives of fire:

helixes folded as choirs,

each base a note,

each spiral a score

composed in the silence.

Listen closely—

your skin sings hydrogen,

your marrow chants iron,

your lungs rehearse

the vocabulary of stars.

What we call solitude

is crowded with voices:

the background whisper

of a universe still cooling,

and the chorus inside us

that refuses to forget

how to sing.

Song version:

The Sulking Kettle

It squats there,

a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—

water pooled in its gut,

silent, sulking.

 

I press the switch,

red eye glaring back,

but the element hums with disdain,

no steam, no promise of warmth.

 

So I lean close,

murmur small consolations:

you are patient,

you are bright as the morning,

you will sing again.

 

At first, nothing.

Then a tremor,

the faintest sigh—

and suddenly a rising chatter,

bubbles shouldering upward:

a chorus of forgiven grievances.

 

And now I wonder

how many small appliances sulk,

waiting for words

I’ve never thought to give.

The Beauty of Slow

Terry the tortoise would sigh,
“I’m slow as the clouds drifting by.
The rabbits all race,
The swallows all chase,
While I only plod, step and try.”
 
But slowly he spotted the dew,
On webs spun in silver and blue.
The daisies that yearned,
The rainbows that burned,
The wonders the quick never knew.
 
So Terry walked on with a grin,
Content with the world he was in.
“For beauty,” said he,
“Was waiting for me—
And slow is the best way to win.”

Some Limericks

A poet set out to contrive,

A limerick lively, alive.

He started off neat,

With a clever light beat,

Then—oh, bother, he lost it.

 ——

A poet who rhymed out of sync,

Rewrote every verse with a drink.

By stanza thirteen,

His rhymes turned obscene—

Then he toppled face-down in the ink.

 ——

A penguin once swam to a faraway land,

For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,

But he baked in the sun,

Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”

And waddled back home, rather tanned.

Three Coins Spent

The Ministry owns every syllable.

The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.

A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.

I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.

Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.

I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.

But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.

I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.

Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.

Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.

Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.

I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.

I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.

I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.

At last I speak: Without you, nothing.

Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.

Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.

Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.

Three coins spent. Eternity bought.

Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.

The Current

I chased the shadow I once cast

the way you look for keys—

checking old rooms,

turning cushions,

peering under the bed of years.

 

But the thing I sought

had already moved on,

a current curling past

the bend of my own memory.

 

The river does not keep

what it once carried;

it remakes itself

with every breath of rain,

every stone worn smooth.

 

I stand in the shallows,

the water folding around my legs,

and realise—

the self I was seeking

is here,

is flowing,

and if I am to hold it at all,

I must learn

to step into the current

and let go.

My Chair and I

My chair is old, a ragged sight,

Its stuffing spills to left and right,

The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,

It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.

I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,

Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,

But none have matched your firm embrace,

Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.

These newer seats may pout and preen,

All glossy curves and showroom sheen,

But none have ever gripped so tight,

Or held my bum with such sheer delight.