I worry.

I worry.
She is my friend.
Her life.
Her choices.
But she is my friend.
I can not make her decisions for her,
I must not try,
But I care.
I worry.
She is my friend.

Us

Sometimes I feel it isn't enough,
But always more than I deserve.
Without doubt, too dear to damage.
Too needed to give away.
A part of me.

Admirer

There is a man,
Who thinks of me
And for a moment,
My heart takes flight,
'Tis free.
Inspiration,
Chance to smile.
My finger's,
Approaching telephone dial.
I pull them back,
I chose circumspection,
But my mind is still,
In a Northerly direction.

Timing

He always seemed to appear,
At a time when I needed attention,
When I needed my faith restoring.
Still, the timing,
For us,
Was never right.

One of those things

I would write it off,
As 'one of those things'.
One of those things,
That makes you aware, learn,
And is therefore priceless.
You know,
One of those things,
That you have to label,
As something,
To justify the fact,
That bad things,
Keep on happening.

Always

I think I'll always love you.
I think I'll always feel something in my stomach,
When your name is mentioned or read.
I think I'll always hope it's the same for you.
I envy people who have the all encompassing love,
But I'm just not sure it would be right for me.
You were maybe the closest I got,
But you weren't completely right for me,
So part of me still loves you,
And will always.
Not having one complete love,
Is the price I have to pay,
For having a part of you there,
Still making me smile.

Answers

It's more than not getting back,
The answer I want.
It's that if I ask him,
And he gives me the answer,
He has the right,
To ask me.
I'm not sure,
I have an answer,
And that's not the answer,
He's going to like.

My heart is spent

What was once a constant smile,
Is becoming constant pain.
The image that was pleasing,
Is changing mood again.
What was once a desired companion,
Is now my souls torment.
For now I know the truth,
And now my heart is spent.

Accident waiting to happen

It wasn't a good idea,
And I'm not proud of myself.
Believe me.
I just have this notion,
That when two accidents waiting to happen,
Collide,
Maybe it's better that way.
It's done,
And dusted,
So you can start rebuilding.

Toast

To faded days,
And distant dreams.
To drinks that wet soft lips,
And warm dry throats.
To touches,
That burn your skin for days.
To a sleepy yawn of promise.
To the smile that greets you,
When you wake.
To the taste of a kiss,
That's only a memory.
To sunlight,
Gently drying morning dew.
To the look of pleasure,
When you meet a friend.
To wild abandon dancing.
To candlelight evoked thoughts.
To family and friendship.
To letting a day take you.
To remembering.

What you see.

When you see yourself,
On camera.
As others see you,
And you realise,
You've changed.
Physically,
As well as mentally.
Whilst you had come to terms,
With the mental, the know.
You know,
You,
Don't,
Like,
What you see.
Now you're not quite sure,
How you feel,
About that.
How you feel,
About you.
About you, now.
Now.

Bar hawk

He was in his fifties.
When he sat,
On the red and gold checked bar stool,
Parts of his buttocks rolled off the edge.
As a long distance coach driver,
He'd spent too long behind the wheel.

He politely checked the seat was free,
And when I responded,
He recognised a fellow Brit.

We smiled and chat began.
As I put the book down,
On the black and gold flecked marble bar,
He apologised for commandeering my time.
He was the first that night to do it,
But but not the last of the trip.

We chatted politely at first,
And eventually,
Particularly in my case,
Animatedly.

He seemed, like me,
A stranger in town,
Someone who lived the life of a perpetual stranger,
With no one to call at home.
No one would really miss us,
If we disappeared for a month.

Then the compliments began to increase,
And he said, "The answer is no, isn't it".

Just checking,
I asked what the question was,
But did mention that if he had to ask,
Then yes, the answer was probably no.

The question was, "My room?"
The answer was definitely no.
A definite "No".
He followed it with,
"I'm a bad person.
I've ruined the conversation.
You think I'm a dirty old man."

"They're your words
Not mine," I uttered,
As I got up from the stool,
"But I'm leaving now...
And no, you're not invited."

I watched my back,
As I got in the lift,
Reaching my room,
In no time at all.
Wondering which one of us,
Misread the situation.

Honest words

He hoped I didn't,
For his own sake.
Somehow,
The most honest words,
I ever heard spoken.

A little bit of guilt seeps in.

I see just a twitch of something.
A twitch of facial muscles.
I wonder whether I stepped over boundaries,
Feelings that I didn't know we're there.
I say nothing.
And a little bit of guilt seeps in.

Wind

The wind was taken from my sails,
And it showed physically.
My shoulders dropped,
As my exhalation went deep into my soul,
Purging all I had within my body.

The look of concern,
On the faces of the others in the room,
Brought me back
And made me smile a little.

Just that little,
That is an eye sparkling,
Type of little.
The temptation of a smile,
That could be all encompassing.

It took me out of that moment,
That room,
To better moments had,
And cleansed my angst.

Whooping

Her whoops,

That had been lost earlier,
In the big band,
Raucous applause,
And appreciation,

Highlighted the extent of the alcohol consumed,
During the day,

And shocked the room.
Like little electrical pulses,
Every time they were emitted,
From the back of her throat.

Temporary person of purpose

A face I can't fully place,
Can't pinpoint,
But when glimpses of it,
Pass through my head,
They make me smile.

Beautiful,
Temporary,
Person of purpose

Empathy

You've felt every one of those things,
Because you've been there.
You shuffle uncomfortably,
Because the memories are too close,
And too harsh.
Sore on the edges.

Strange dreams.

I had a series,
Of strange dreams last night.
It has shifted me a little,
Sideways.
They're not memories,
But new versions,
Of old times.
Reminders.

A little shift,
From where my life is now.

I don't think you know.

We had the usual drunken,
Marriage and love,
Talks,
But I was honest about thinking,
It was never going to materialise.
He warmed me with his empassioned,
'I don't think you know how much I love you.'

Away

Can we stop somewhere?
Can we go somewhere?
Somewhere with fresh air,
And a cool breeze.
Somewhere where either there are no people at all,
Or there are hundreds of strangers.
I want to get away from all this.
I want to get away from being me.

Falsehood

You flatter with words,
In moments you feel you must,
But your body language,
And actions,
Betray you.

You confuse even yourself,
With the conflicting desires,
And, as much as it makes me,
Not all together like myself,
I hope it pains you.

What they are trying to tell me.

So I sit here,
With the sun in my face,
Listening to he birds, planes, helicopters.
Wondering what tune to put on next,
And whether to get my book,
From the side of the bed.

Deciding not to write,
About last nights nightmares,
And what they are trying to tell me.

Nauseous.

It's like I'm hungry,
For that thing I don't have,
For that connection.

Yet my stomach,
Is that empty,
I could not face the food.

The mere thought of it,
Makes me nauseous.

Always tired.

My brain is still sleepy from the 40 winks.
Two days in a row now,
I have catnapped mid/late afternoon.
I think it is my mind that needs the catnaps.
My mind is tiring my body.

Standing in front of the large, lit, mirror,
That walls the bathroom.
I do not like my image.
I see all the things,
I wish were not there.

Comparing it to the drawing,
The etching of the female sculpture,
I could suppose that I,
Could, in some ways,
Come across more 'favourably'.

In some ways.
On good days.
But then I reason,
That this is real life,
Where not everything is 'beautiful'.

Oh, how we see,
Judge, what we see,
And make ourselves tired.
Always judging.
Always tired.

Catching.

I catch myself,

At times, in moments,

I see myself. 

My self. 

I see myself,

From another perspective. 

An old self,

My self. 

It catches my innards. 

Ties me to her, delicately. 

The old self. 

My self. 

Remembering, missing, 

Wishing, wondering. 

What would shift? 

What would change?

What could I keep?

What would I lose? 

Free her and lose me? 

Smiles.

When I look at their smiles,
Envy  flips
A sudden reaction.
The emotion grips.

A deeper look,
And thoughts appear.
Putting myself in place.
Have they hidden fear?

We all carry bruises,
We all carry scars,
That infect our happiness.
History marrs.

We put on our faces.
We tackle today.
Our minds hold more,
Than our mouths care to say.

Boiling

He makes a statement, and I recoil.
A statement to make my sweet blood boil.
He gets no reaction, so up he stands.
His look says we're strangers in foreign lands.
No openness to things outside his box.
My back is stirred. My shoulders? Rocks.
Grouch, take advantage, even moan,
But never question the music of Nina Simone.

escaping days

Escaping days
Days of freedom.
Where smiles bubble,
Just below the surface.
Where you make your own choices,
And the hamster wheel has stopped.
Paused for just a moment.
A precious moment.

Not yet here.

You're not yet here,
But you fill my thoughts.
The things not to do,
And then the oughts.

I worry for you.
I worry for us.
I know it will look like,
Making a fuss.

But I must, I must.
For fear of regret.
For fear of my fault,
That I couldn't forget.

The genes they have stirred.
The worrying builds.
Below the surface.
As the love gilds.

Looking forward.

My urge is there, to have things right.
But too much effort, generates fight.
Did I do too much, did I push too far?
Those fears that take happiness and marr.
I look forward to the day that we can meet,
But am scared to tempt fate, that I'll lose you - my sweet.

Simply live.

I'm laying here,
Close to tears.
Blame tiredness,
And all those fears.
That lonely feeling,
Deep inside.
The exposed concern,
With no place to hide.
With every day,
There's something wrong.
But every day,
You must go on.
You miss the person,
You once were,
But do not want,
To make her stir.
You'll only feel,
The loss much greater
And who you are now?
You must not hate her.
She's all you have,
And all you can give.
So you keep on going
You simply live.

Letters to the dead.

Dear Grandad, 

I read some articles in a magazine and thought of you – the same way that you would read newspaper articles, think of me, and have them folded on the side ready for my Saturday visit. They made me realise that I’m still holding on to this feeling that in the midst of all those ‘thanks’ you gave to me in the last few years, maybe I didn’t make mine clear enough to you.  I didn’t thank you for the most important thing. Being you. 

You’d shrug it off, you’d make a joke, but I think you’d be quietly pleased.We lost you in October.  I can’t thank you for that.  I acknowledge that you might have been thankful for it at the end, but that’s for your letter of thanks – this is mine.You thought you were a nuisance.  You thought you were the kind of hassle we didn’t need.  Never. Oh, you could be hard work.  I’d never deny that.  I’d have a hard job of denying that. But you were worth every car journey and every minute and hour we gave to you, for you.  You were Grandad.  But it’s more than that.

You were the person that taught me that love can be that quiet thing that just hangs around in the background until you need it.  You were the person that showed me that love is still love, and still means the earth, when the object of that love is lost to dementia.  Watching you quietly, ever so patiently, sit there and still love Grandma, unequivocally, no matter what dementia made her resort to, showed me that love doesn’t have to change when people change, when situations change.  Love is that moment you treasure, that connection you had, and it is still golden long after the years and the trauma’s have tarnished it.  Underneath, it is still gold.  It was you, and I think that’s probably a surprise for both of us, that taught me about real love.  Not the pretty love, not the sexy love, and not the fairy tale love.  The love, love.  The day to day, putting up with the pain, willing to fight for it, love.  The mostly patient and accepting love that steps up whenever it’s needed. 

Never a man of many words, but always a man of those little two or three line poems in birthday cards.  The Man with the rubbish jokes.  The man with the tales about life before I was born, the ones that were very often on repeat.  Even the criticisms of my hair cuts…  I loved them because they were you and they said that you cared.  But the day I read the card you had them write for Grandma’s funeral taught me that you were the man of the right words and just how strong love could be.  “E, Just an aching void, A."

It still gets me in the stomach, the throat and the tear ducts.  Straight to the point and quietly powerful - so very you. 

So this letter is for the words I can never be sure you heard because I only got to say them whilst you were sleeping - and they’d removed the hearing aid by that point.  

Grandad, Thank you for being you and thank you for loving me.  You were loved and you were always worth it. 

Not a good combination.

I just didn't realise that relationships can die,
Because you care too much.

I gave myself away,
Until there was barely anything left.

At that point, I wasn't enough,
For either of us.

He became disappointed,
And I bitter.

They are not a good combination.

Nothing to say.

I stared aimlessly out of the passenger window.
The sun was bright, reflecting on the window,
And I raised the darkened spectacles,
To cover my aching eyes.
It occurred to me at that point,
That I was not offering conversation to the driver,
But I couldn't think of anything to say,
So I retreated back in to my own mind.