If a picture speaks a thousand words,
then I've just written a novel.
I hope it has a happy ending.

Benedict
thinks of her
Christina

the girlfriend
at high school
as he now

undresses
preparing
for bedtime

she far off
in her house
in her town

her parents
probably
below stairs

watching their
dull programmes
on TV

while she in
her bedroom
undresses

or so he
imagines
(in his head)

watching her
removing
each piece of

clothing
as he too
undresses

in his room
a coloured
centrefold

of a fast
racing car
on the wall

and her small
photograph
by his bed

she gave him
he'd seen her
on the field

at high school
during their
lunch recess

she sitting
with her friends
giggling

then walking
together
off alone

high smell of
lavender
her soft hand

lips kissing
now in bed
lying there

lights all out
just moonlight
reflecting

her image
he pretends
she is there

next to him
not speaking
not laughing

both watching
the moon move
and stars shine

hands touching
fingers entwined
each having

the same thoughts
in shared mind.

I scramble around a petrol token mug
purporting to be an ash tray stained in neglect
needling between ash and cigarette butts
looking for some spent tobacco to recycle
and breathe in the cancerous smoke of belonging.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I am strong when you are feeble", he said.

The doctor twiddles his fountain pen
a parting gift from his late father
held with the poise of grace
and wielded like a lance
the pen can do many things for he and I
prescribe or chastise
the freedom with solitude
and the four white walls
of limiting restraint.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"We are symbiotic you and I", he said.

I wonder though is it:
Mutualistic
Commensalism
Parasitism or
Neutralism -
Who benefits who?

Do we bathe in each others glory
holding hands in the lost age of reason
comfort in the loneliness of winter
or just a dream of the endless
a figment of the imagination
and the passing of time
looking out of frosted windows.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I lead you in the dark, I am your light", he said.

I sometimes step back into the gloom
He fills my capillaries
clogging up my arteries
with his dark and mischievous veins
calling out to faceless strangers
walking past in the haze
the ones the others do not see
just out of line of sight
mottled and disfigured and blurred.

"Have another drink on me", he said.

I am distracted by the minute
leading this shabby existence
and the opening of unpaid bills
and the carnage of last weeks washing
and the bottles of empty beer discarded
like a tramps ***** in the drying sun
monuments to a day before when we were younger
and wrestled in the long grass of salvation
and the long summer days of liberal libation.

"I am the one and only constant you will ever have", he said.

Without him I will be hollow
like a rotten tree trunk
gashed in initials of love letters
with a pen knife
saturated in the remains
of fortified wine bottles
and leaf litter molding
in the dying frost of spring.

"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
Just don't ever talk about us, is what he meant.

First of May.
That peach tree you planted
now blooms, flushes pink,
the cherry ones burst purple.
Umpteen types of daffodil
sprout up to gulp sunlight,
flower beds house seeds,
beans and peas in abundance
in your vegetable garden.
Plum batons of rhubarb
protrude, threaten
your little portion of Devon.
But the finest thing
is the girl, the daughter,
a great blossom skipping
from spring to summer,
beaming like a lighthouse
to guide both of you home.

when I was a little girl I dreamt
of a happy, adventurous life;
I once dreamt I would become someone
instead of someone's wife.
but adventure was not meant for me.
(for a woman, it's not right.)
so I settled for the daydreams
by my darling husband's side.
oh, but who knew that you, love,
would ask me to be a thief --
turned a man into a murderer
with that stolen handkerchief.
maybe I, too, am responsible
for this overwhelming grief;
she was good, and kind, a most perfect wife;
but betrayed by jealousy.
now she lies here, dead; all I loved is gone,
and this man, he took her life --
out of jealousy, and o'er a lie;
and he called it sacrifice.
now I, too, must die; and at your hands
but at least I'll die for truth.
my dear husband; they've reserved a special
place in hell for you.

The day we met to kiss
You asked me
To take a chance on you
To be yours again
To put aside the past
And the pain
And simply be yours
And I took that chance
And I was happy
Everyday because
I finally made a good choice
But here I am now
Asking you to take a chance on me
To put aside your pain and your fear
Just like I did
And let me prove that even the deepest wounds
Can be healed with love
With time
And with a deep rooted affection
Give me the chance I gave you
And maybe just maybe
We dont have to give up
On our time together
Just fight for it together.