Lovesong of the Heartsick


I am suddenly overwhelmed with the urge
to hold your hand, to intertwine your fingers
with mine so I can feel the heat simmer through my
bones to reignite the fire, to reignite us.

I have been so cold. I do not have enough fingers
and toes to tell you how much I have missed your warmth.
Years have flew by, sunsets have gone to waste
all for me to guide you back with my song.

I told myself it’s not good to think this way.
For you are so very far, and so very different
to the child I loved all those moons ago.
My first wander to you was deep and arduous,
and I can’t help but fall down these old grooves,
this worn road again back to you.

This is me hoping to see your face again,
hoping to bathe in your glow, hoping to
bring back the crinkles around your lips.
This is me hoping you might like me back.


I carved out a little piece of earth, and I called it ours.
I wanted to create serenity so you face
comfort when you come home.
I was sure if I taped over the cracks in
the window, it would retain the pathetic
heat radiating from our simmering rage,
to last us through the winter.

Instead, we tore down the curtains,
smashed the frame to re-fracture the glass,
(the room was too warm anyway)
stubbed cigarettes on the fresh carpet,
had angry sex next to the blackened holes
we tried to drown our feelings in;
the foundation crumbling beneath us with every move.

This is the morning after the night before:
I am learning to mould my arm into
a template of your body, where you used to be,
for you to always be near even when
you only appear in the seconds between
sleep and consciousness.
I can’t recall the last time I felt warm.

The Shovel That Buried Me

You’re laughing with the ones you love
but it doesn’t quite feel the same.

Somehow, that light breeze took away
some fraction of spirit,
and left you with a frightening chill that shook
the very ground you stand on.

Maybe it’s the heaviness in your heart
that became too much,
or the sad truth of it all tattooed on your
lover’s face, unrecognisable under your touch.

I’m trying to understand how I am supposed
to feel grateful for life when all it’s ever
done is stood on shovel that buried me,
jumped on the dirt where I lay beneath,
while I smiled and prayed for better days


Darling, remember me,
if only once in a while,
if only when you accidentaly
scroll to your oldest photos.
I have changed: I am bitter
and wounded, I wear my
battle scars proudly
but only on certain days.
Remember us and those times
when nothing went right,
though we only turned
left and laughed it off.

But, love, that was enough
for us back then, when we still
thought we could destroy every
source of sadness with improvised
and highly questionable weapons.

I loved you with my whole heart.

Remember me by the photographs
you thought you deleted, the ugly
ones where our faces are overwhelmed
with happiness and blind faith.


I could spend my years travelling south,
and somehow, I’d still find traces of you lingering.

It’s been almost 9 months since the last time,
yet, I’m sure I can identify you by
the light shining through your curls.
I swore I left you behind, I followed the book,
I did all the ceremonial things,
but I still see you in the corner of my eye.
The wind has worn grooves into your bones,
the dust settled deep as you atone,
your lips tremble and quiver
under the weight of your smile.

I forget the simple truth that you are as human
as I am, choosing to remember you by your halo
in the setting sun than the red eyes and shy smile.