Sleep

After burrowing a hole in the blanket
He still chose to sleep on my thigh



Where I now feel the little thumping of his heartbeat

Pinpricks in my...

heart, my irregular beating heart,
my soul, sodden, trodden soul,
my mind, unsettled, chaotic mind.

"why do you look so sad?"
"you speak to me with words and I look at you with feelings."

"everything needs an entrance and exit."

How true; purgatory is for the wretched.

Absence does not

Absence sometimes makes not the heart fonder
Sometimes absence makes the memory fade faster
The sight, scent, touch and sound get thinner
Like stirring a teaspoon of milk into a cup of black coffee
All traces of white disappear into black
Turning into brown
The colour of dirt and dusty forgotten sunsets

Sometimes absence makes the silence a trusty companion
Absence sometimes makes the hollow whole again
So sometimes, and for some, absence does not a fonder heart make

Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"
— somewhere i have never travelled, e.e. cummings