Tuesday 21 October 2003

The Nights are the Worst

The nights are the worst.
That time of night – could be midnight, or even thirty seven minutes past two. Always before the sun rises, always after the sun sets. In Darkness. With a window open and cold feet. If I get bored there’s always the lighthouse, flashing once, twice, three times, and then a rest. And then once, twice, three times. Think of the next part of a story. Choose between Michael and Nathaniel – who will get Mirabella? Who killed Jesse? How does the tune go for that Joni Mitchell song again? Recite a poem. Make one up. Why did the coffee drop on the word ‘stopped’? Such a perfect frame. What will I wear for our next meeting? I wonder who else has noticed that he wears alternate tops? White with long sleeves or blue with the bulls-eye. The wavy mirrors in his bathroom; the purple and white sheets. Trace the shadows on the wall – long eyelashes, straight nose. Close your eyes. You know it’s because you’re scared of tomorrow.

Wednesday 15 October 2003

Nathaniel

Nathaniel, do you know who you are? I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure. An invisible childhood friend, a rapist, a period of loneliness, a loving boyfriend. A one-night stand? Are you also Nathaniel? I don’t understand why I can’t find a name to fit for him. I found names for everyone else; for Ross, Audrey, Adam and Claire. But not for him: the boy who looks like Elvis. Nostrils like teardrops and transparent eyes like the sea in Malta. Who talked too much and wore golden boxing gloves around his neck. Who smelled like the upholstery of a bar stool and bought me too many drinks. Who asked if what he was doing was nice and never phoned me. Who didn’t realise that I wasn’t shaking because I was cold. Who didn’t realise that ‘yes’ meant ‘no’, or that my first teardrop was for guilt. I left him in such a hurry that night.

Sunday 12 October 2003

The Bench at the Top of the Bank

Whenever I get upset or confused, I go for a walk, and I always end up sitting on the bench at the top of the bank. It was there I sat when I made the wish for us to be together, and when I realised that September would bring with it the end of us. I sat there when I feared you and I were at the end of our relationship, and I couldn’t find the courage to tell you my deepest secret. I sat there at half past two in the morning once, shoes in hand, and thought about what I had just done. I sat there at four in the morning once and watched the sun rise, the morning after I realised I had been used. And I sat there waiting for him. But he never came. And what does this tell me? The only good thing that has challenged me in the past six months is the wish I made for us to be together. And we are still together, even after all of these challenges.

Sunday 10 August 2003

August

I already have someone who loves the freckle on my collar bone. I have someone who notices the brightness of my eyes when I’m tired. Someone who can tell when I’m drunk; who comes up behind me and kisses the side of my neck. Who removes a hair from my face and holds it up to the light, and holds my head against their chest as though our embrace will last forever. I already have someone who makes me shiver by simply placing their fingers against my skin. Who can say something and make me smile like there’s light pouring out of my whole body. Who can release so much emotion inside me with just a look.

Thursday 7 August 2003

Big Mistakes

Tell me I haven’t made the biggest mistake of my life. Tell me I have to think of my future. Tell me I simply got caught up in a moment where fantasy came together with reality. Tell me my friends will miss me. Tell me it won’t be the same without me. Tell me he will see me the way he saw me that night. Tell me I will go on to great things because of this. Tell me he’ll love me.

Sunday 3 August 2003

give me beauty

Give me beauty. Give me a room painted white, a wooden floor and a green plant. Give me Venetian blinds and a car boot sale dressing table mirror. Give me crisp white sheets and a glass of water on a bedside table. Give me the natural light of half past six on a morning in August, and birdsong flowing through the window on a gentle breeze. Give me the smell of fresh cut grass and lavender. Let me run my fingers through warm hair, and marvel at the beauty of a sleeping face. Let me whisper words into a dreaming mind and pretend they can really hear me. Let my fresh eyes be the first thing somebody sees when they wake up. Give me purity and beautiful hands. Give me an embrace. Let me finally hold onto something that has a pulse.