For all the times I have wanted to write something beautiful, but only thought of you

There are lines drawn in the sand that spell out
All the secrets I wanted to say but never did
Letters so big you can see them from space
And there are men that sit in space stations
That tell their children of all the things
I have wanted to say.
They tell tales that will one day become lore
Like the wolf in grandmother’s clothing
And the treacle jug that never stopped pouring.

I want to tell you that you are so important
That there are birds on my street that only sing when they know you’re around
That there is a special season made up just for you,
One with brisk mornings and warm nights and sometimes storms
You are not as small as you think you are
So be bigger, darling.
Because these oceans have made a habit of parting for you and
The spacemen and their children think you are
Made up of all the magic in the world
And they love you for it.

And the moon, oh god, she wants to tell you of all the beautiful things
I have written
All the stories that make you magic
But they have not the voices, nor the means to reach you
Instead, these satellites, they look to me
But all I can give you is the grazes on my knees and the bruises on my arms
All the love of a five year old.
So I try to give you a wet willie
Licking my fingers with all the truths I wanted to stick in your ears
But you squirm away

You see, I want you to believe that you can do anything
Like those spacemen that still have glow in the dark stars above their beds
Because those dreams are meant to be taken seriously.
And there is graffiti etched into the pavements
That tells of how big your heart is
And how wide your hands are
How much the world just wants to give you everything
And how blind you must be to not see it.

Eden; Broken Things.

Remember that day I told you

I have a love for broken things

I said that’s why I love the moon

Who can eat up the sky each night

And still dissolve into it.

It speaks volumes to me

So I’ll take that apple from the mouth of the snake

Again and again

Never once pausing to question its intentions

Because he said it would make him whole.

I wonder if you ever understood the reasons

Why we are all searching for completion

Because you had already found yours

Taken from your ribs while you were sleeping

Some people are just made that way.

You said that in that garden nothing

Could ever go wrong

Then I entered into it

And I wanted you to see the beauty in working with your hands

But I wonder if you ever understood

The ways you have to hold the earth in your hands

Before it will fold to your will.

Remember that supernovae

Shining bright as the moon

The night you held my waist in your hands

And I buckled, feeling in your touch

All the things you wanted to say

And I was made able to give.

You said you admired the stars

Because they were constant

But even then, that star was already dying

And we were banished

Like Montague out of Verona

Into the land of waiting.

And what now do you make of the stars

As you turn your face from the earth

And I kneel in dust and ash

Water up to my chest

Heart up to my neck

And I swore to you I would make you whole.

Words for Humans, pt.3

We are holding onto the handles of bikes

Screaming naivety and bloody murder

Until the neighbours all turn their blinds and

Peek out through the shutters.

I became a rocket ship

That time we ran through the streets

And we felt like we could live forever.

Time.

Like six minutes past five on Sundays

When the world slows down and breathes

Slowly

It drips through your fingers

Soaking into your veins

And runs riots in your heart

Setting fire to your lungs

Some days, all I do is shed my skin

I become deciduous

Like the maples and oaks in autumn

I cover the ground around me

All at once with everything and nothing.

I swear I could live a thousand lives

And rise each time from the earth to find you

Sprawled out underneath that tree in your backyard

Splitting walnuts with the pocket knife I found

That night we shot to the moon and came back with

A comb

Three rings

Tobacco

And a battered copy of hemingway.

You asked me once why I never was honest in the things I wrote

I told you that it was the only time I ever was honest

I was lying.

Now the Sundays drift into other afternoons

And I wanted to tell you how you make me feel

But I was a tree, and refused to say the things

I should have.

Now I write about fireworks 

And ferris wheels

And the taste of peaches and salt water

And how at a certain time each Sunday

My heart begins to race in my chest

And how all this time whenever I jump off anything

I’m still waiting for the impossible to happen

To land on the ground and be unafraid.

I am holding onto the handles of bikes

My skin is on fire and the world feels it too

Each part of me is falling away

I have become autumn and I’m screaming out all the things I lied to you about:

I am still a quarter and three halves from finishing

My heart is a marching band between my lungs

This is how you make me feel:

Like Mojgani and a ticker-tape parade where everybody lives

Like six minutes past five on Sunday afternoons

Cracking walnuts open with a pocket knife

Like hemingway

Like tobacco smoke and combs and silver rings

Like a rocket ship which can fly anywhere.