And the sorrows of old, like
coffee stains
on my unfinished paintings
of an unpainted sky.
Collecting dust on forgotten shelves
Pixie lights to survive another cold night.
Huddled close like lovers
Tinsel and glitter
A time of candles and shawls and rhymes
That little Santa
on my plastic Christmas tree.
We could have been a fairy tale
written in pink pencils that draw on
blue butterflies.
Or even a mistake, cherished and loved and hidden
inside yellowing books
of pretty lies and dandelions.
But Spring prickles at my armpits,
sticky and vulgar like my chipped nail polish.
My seasons don't have a rhythm.
They tumble over each other,
on my obscured line of sight.
Cold cardigans of sadness
like the fires of old kisses,
To keep me warm
As we sit around a fire
And sing odes to forgotten pleasures.
I've found a new song
to spin my favourite words on
a thread of thought,
metaphors scoured and stolen
from that spider web in the clouds,
where I've been living ever since you left,
Numbed of feeling and hungry for love.
Paint me a sky
for when we meet again
Where stars never disappear
Into black holes.
They live forever
In my cupboard
On the branches of my plastic Christmas tree.
Dreaming of a Spring they will never see.