The tip of your finger, your tongue, your eyelash outlines my silhouette in semi-permanent stain. I knew from the first touch you were, we were only temporary. Only. Not wholly. For the time being. But your mouth imprints my own and for something half-hearted and incomplete, you've made a home out of me.
I look forward to knowing the texture of your skin your words lips tongue against my own See the shade, the light, the rings of your pupils as you speak of things unfamiliar to me but the way you talk feels known. Right, warm, real And our fingers touch in the middle of … Continue reading Begin
An installment of Lucy Writes Crap Poetry on Her Phone perhaps if i unstitch these scars wounds seemingly bound together by temp- orary measures stapled with safety pins. tear my heart apart, bleed myself dry off from the rain. it'll (i'll) be enough. will you refasten the locks when you shut the door or (just) will you replace … Continue reading Perhaps
She did that thing with her hair. Twisting it playfully around her finger like a loose thread. In the same manner she did on our first date. It used to be endearing, flirtatious even, but right now it’s pissing me off. It’s too dark for her pasty complexion. Once, it shone caramel; the colour, contagious … Continue reading Break Up Writing
Rickety, reckless, ridiculous more like! A young couple. 19? Baby in pram. A father, a nuisance, tattooed skull and ring on his finger, fingers round her waist. Hair like straw, attacked with heat from the night before? Window-screen adaption to a day-time performance 'Town please.' she says '1.40, love.' I mutter. The baby shrieks, … Continue reading Public Transport