Being one’s true and honest self can often be dangerous; and poetry should always be a place where, if only between the pages, that danger and energy and fear and excitement and love can fizz and spark without ever threatening to burn something down.

Finallya day will come whenwoken by the xylophoneof sunthroughblindsyou’ll realisethat the beach was not the placewhere horses tore the sandto ribbonthat the scent of him has liftedfrom the last of the sheetsthat he isn’t coming backthat it hasn’t rainedbut the birds are pretending that it hasso they can sing

loveis giving everything too easilythen staying to try and claw it back

oh love, doesn’t the fact that the world is so big,laid out like ripe fruitmake you want to stay?

please, love, leave,like leaf from tree;taking beauty,leaving seed