The clock strikes midnight

You stand transfixed by its chimes

Defenceless in moments like this –

You’re engulfed by the silence that follows

Your fingers slip,

The spell is broken

Glass scattered around your feet –

A vague reminder of the girl with the missing glass slipper


Eventually we run out of tomorrow’s

Time stands still and bows its head,

Empty promises bounce off the stone walls,

I stand in the doorway¬†–

Cold coffee in your favourite mug,

Lipstick marks stain the rim,

“There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”

Words are cushioned by a desperate plea –

I shrug it off,

I never did like cold coffee anyway.

Drunk on you

You watch her as she prays
Her slow methodical movements
The carefully sought out words
Muttered under her breath
She smells of milk and honey
Intoxicating you with the solitude she hungers for
You watch her undress
Her hair cascades down to embrace her shoulders
She tastes of milk and honey

In exchange for love

Battle scars and that tattoo on your left shoulder,

Feel the burden weighing you down

Trudging along towards your souls demise.

Hollow porcelain,

Taking care as you climb that ladder –

Balancing the moon in one hand

As you reach out with the other to prick the dark velvet blanket cast over the sky

Whilst peering over the edge to find the sun sleeps soundly in her cradle


Lost hope

What of love?

As she works tirelessly to mend broken souls,

Fervently stitching the frayed ends together,

Her fingers rough and calloused.

What of love?

When you unpick all her hard work,

And then complain of that hole in your shirt,

The one where your heart once took shelter.

What of love?

She gave you the shirt off her back,

The one you now wear,

With the hole where she once lived.