London Lovin’.
Your things look so fine
taking up the space next to mine.
In this purgatory we’ve made ours we co-habit quite contently.
Mostly.
We line the shelves with our possessions;
photo frames gathering lived-in apathy and dust,
the box sets of classic hardback books that we’ll never have time to read,
a city-scape of empty wine bottles on the windowsill
with the pitiful sunlight glinting through
washing our room shades of green;
our Atlantis
(lost to the world, and even to us)
We thought once that it might be romantic.
Our little slice of limbo.
Tiny,
transient;
London,
lonely.
Now the romance is dead and we still live on,
no blinds on the windows or sheets on the bed,
doors held open with yellowed copies of books left unread too many times.
We learn and re-learn the topography of each other,
trying to rediscover our wanderlust, to no avail. Now, we’d rather find ourselves
in the bottom of vodka bottles
than in each other.
And yet, I wouldn’t want to drink myself into oblivion with anyone but you,
or anywhere but here.
Human.
You and I have been apart so long that it feels strange to once again be in your company.
You stare,
and it feels like a strangers gaze.
The arpeggios of your voice seem unfamiliar,
the dimple on one side of your cheek stolen from some other life.
Your hand brushes mine over the table top and we blush,
laugh,
fumble around the contact with sticky palms
until you grip my fingertips firmly,
smiling as your words
trip
past your tongue and through your chapped lips.
I think I glossed over your imperfections in the time you were away chasing your dreams.
I forgot the little chip in your front tooth
and that your eyes sit just a little too close together. In my head I pictured you differently
without the gap in your eyelashes
and the crack in your voice when you talk about home.
I omitted the things I loved the most like the freckles that go all the way down your neck and across your collarbone
and your laugh which changes every time.
I forgot that I loved you for just how human you were.
Pebble Kisses.
You took me to the pebble beach three times.
First, to see the sunrise through to the sunset.
The sunrise was pretty, the sunset was average.
We laughed as the colours ran into one another
the red and yellow smearing the orange,
and the deep blue stealing the sky so very fast.
Second, for fish and chips with mushy peas on the promenade.
They were the best i’ve ever tasted
but i think it helps that i ate your chips
and you ate mine.
“Sharing is caring,” you whispered into my neck
as a smile took over my face.
The third time,
that last time,
was to gaze at the stars and the pebbles.
I asked you why, and you told me that there was no time but now to appreciate both the greatest and the smallest.
The stars were breath-taking;
“The celestial dance troupe presents the stars of the heavens.”
They took centre stage, and it felt as though they danced for us.
But the pebbles were my favourite, because they were so simple,
starting from huge mountains as old as time
or grains of sand that had found their way
all over the earth
to be this pebble,
in this moment.
And what a beautiful moment it was,
as the sea breeze fizzed over our skin,
stealing our breath,
and you kissed me.
“Dear world, you look tired today.”
No one knows the danger of you,
the enticing glow of your excited eyes and solemn lips
as we struggle for sleep on the cold sheets of lonely beds.
Eye contact is
awkwardly always avoided,
in favour of staring into coffee or bright laptop screens.
Talk about nothing is everywhere;
we feel we must make noise, or be forgotten.
Bed beckons,
over and over again I wish to be tangled in sheets
where I once tangled with you,
a sorry sack of feelings with beautiful eyes.
I have a million words, but your name is my favourite.
Life is something happening
outside the doors and curtained windows.
The world passes us by,
out of reach of the realms of our candlelit castle.
You liked to pull me out of bed to the window
on starry nights
and point out the constellations:
darling, I miss your conversation.
You are the rhythm and rhyme to every day.
Pride painted across pained faces;
you are not whole as you once were.
Your apathy will be the end of me.
I say nothing if not invited;
My thoughts aren’t as wonderful as yours.
You lean close.
Whisper: Are the moon and the sun friends or do they fight for the sky?
I keep your words like candied sweets in my glove compartment,
for a slow, rainy day.
“One day,
let’s just buy train tickets and hope they take us to the end of the world.”
A silence.
“I hope it’s warm there.”
**********
Gee Charlie Middleton is a twenty year old poet currently studying for her BA in English with Creative Writing at Falmouth University. She is interested in satsumas, good people, beaches, comic books and things that go bump in the night. Born into a busy academic family, she has always found writing to be her way of processing the world around her, and will try forever to capture within her words how deeply she loves the universe. Her ambition is to become a successful poet and to make everyone she meets smile. In lieu of this, she’ll probably just open a book shop.
You can find her writing here: https://seekingeveryadventure.wordpress.com/
And stay up to date with her twitter (https://twitter.com/geewrites) and her Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/Gee-Middleton-PoetWriter-752738578078944/)
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 