Listen—-
I’m trying to tell you the truth but it keeps
soaking into my hands.

the truth is you, turning your face away
the truth is too black and white to understand.
the truth is i see my train coming and it’s too late to run down the escalator       

even the streetlight flickers as we pass beneath it,
you say naming it would be enough to keep it still                             but its never been still.  and it's never been named, 

the truth wants to find its way around you shoo it off but it comes back

the truth keeps dragging its heels, scuffing the ground its a sound we pretend not to hear the truth puts its hands on your hips and pulls you closer

the truth is getting tipsy now–              the truth falling into our mouths and between our teeth  as we breathe and the truth sharpens itself, pressing its edge against my palm, testing what will cut clean and what will seep into the lines it already knows,  where it can't melt back out It just keeps soaking into my hands It just keeps soaking into my hands

Its a beautiful morning in san fransisco                                                     and maybe I should paint my house blue.

theres just enough sunlight to distract
poor circulation
as the San Francisco fog
hugs you like a friend and kisses your nose.

you invite her in for coffee,
and the hills lose their steepness
the crispness of the air—
the most important part of me tumbles out
of holes I sewed buttons back onto

a city that makes you want to pick up old habits
and wear them, because they’re yours
or because you found them somewhere you loved
and forgot you left them there too

San Francisco makes you want to ride a bike,
buy a book,
and smile at people wearing sweaters—
because they’re a soft statement,
and maybe the world needs more softness.
maybe San Francisco knows it too.

and maybe If I leave the window open long enough
She’ll stay a little longer—the fog, the light, the soft rediscovery
of who I was when I wasn’t full of disappointment
and the pressing curiosity, the insistent demand that maybe i should be..                                                                                          anyone else.

The flavour of contentment,

time garnished with delight

joyous people, lively events

you're sat at a table with a drink

happy with who you've become

stop wondering

what would have happened

.. what would have happened

what would have happened

The night you were meant to come over I bought bagels for breakfast, played kokoroko outside and smoked until my throat was sore

Lights pooled over the butamen and I watched the vibrations  of Sheila Maurice-greys trumpet

these rippling blues and oranges; splitting the dark open like it was trying to make something soft out of something hard

Like teaching the silence how to hum

I dont want a clean space, 

I want a smell that curls and boils over, I want your perfume, your sweat

Staining my rug

When you leave

I am laying in the dark on Persian wool, 

pushing the oil into the fibres, 

my palms warming from the friction

im finding the heavy humid memory of your neck

and im falling asleep again 

im afraid, the air is cold

my palms still vibrating

and im falling asleep again