growth

growth


Some days I walk miles with melancholia,
there in my pocket,
residue on my hands.

We said
it's not the material you want though is it,
when reading,
not stood up here,
holding my grief to the light,
not understanding the need for relief
in everyone who turns up,
pulls up a pew -

but I see loneliness as a bottle of eyes
of every lover I've ever quested
and all the lovers I haven't.
I see heartache as a barrelmate's drum,
the inside of my skin, the colour of my marrow.

And this is a safe space
to stand up and feel held in it,
as the grief turns into a wave
that wave turns into a raindrop,
crawls back into the river
small and unafraid,
drifting to become more sea.

Yes, it would be blinkered
to think we cannot,
turn up with the palms of our hands
weighted so heavy,
to think that when the days
are longer to take
you couldn't rest that moment
with the company here

well,
it's nosfodder, cannotworthy,
it's the beast in the dark,
it's the last of a sunset
when no other Sun is around,
it is the helium balloon
smashed into deflating,
it is a quiet wander in the gloom
and I will keep giving a voice
to that empty
until she no longer lives
in my room.