This Beating Shape

One year

encompassed by my heart strung

across Paperchase postcards;

a tangible copy of my soul, now sat waiting

in your College pigeon-hole.

 

Legs intertwined amongst our make-shift bed of

blankets and last night’s sweat and lust.

With you, lust isn’t temporary, lust is

sick to my stomach, a comforting nervousness.

The way your lips imprint my collar bones,

our hearts stitched as one.

 

One year of your fingers sewn to fit between

the gaps of mine.

The way your hair shines in the depths of winter,

for you are the sun’s companion in the frost.

365 alterations to my otherwise mundane

days of feeling your breath on the nape of my neck.

Even when your lips are 2 hours away.

For your shadow, your fingertips have formed a

carbon copy on my heart.

 

You have it always. This organ, this beating shape

under layers of skin, you’ve only strengthened.

I know that’s true. My rib-cage, now painted with

turquoise forcefield.

I’m not afraid anymore.

You’re to thank for that.

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She’s

Her eyes are a marble collection of rainbow hues,

fabricating past mistrust and apprehension,

into a revised perspective.

 

For she now carries her coat, her mac, her jacket;

no longer a protective cape, but kick-ass costume.

She’s colour, an orbit of Crayola; strides of smashed

kaleidoscope; her glass half-full.

Painting her former demons onto

a canvas of newfound strength.

Her lips mould words, blurring across my vision,

she’s everywhere, a beacon.

Her hair, a patch-work replica of the aqua-marine.

 

She’s home reconsidered, a swimming pool.

She’s a change I don’t fear,

now routine from what was before.

You’re

You’re the girl immersed in the city

colour, from slate grey to

carnival inked maps.

You’re lilac, a colourful orbit, a

translucent, iridescent sun-rise,

Tying me to the shore, like an anchor.

You’re keeping me ship-wrecked,

and captive, safely so.

 

My heart is meshed, knitted in a

tight, make-shift spider’s web.

Laced in a mesh of passion

and goodbyes.

 

You’re my lighthouse in the rocky storm.

You’re rainbow infused safety,

You’re.

les-be-honest

 

‘but she’s a girl’

my mother said

after I paid for dinner

& the valentines’ card was signed

with swirly, delicate style

not block capitals like my father’s

 

her body

like mine, but different

iridescent, a beacon in the

morning sun

dazzling her spine

like a torch

 

I touch, but it’s wrong

but it feels… ri-

yet we hold hands slyly

in the corner of the bus

 

no husband to pay the

bills, my parents fear

 

our legs intertwined in our

(air-raid) shelter

‘unnatural!’ the sirens blare

she, the lighthouse in the storm

(of my affections)