Pressure

Every night alone
it comes,
every seed sown
spilt over cold ideas,
over nothing:
ghost lovers.

Sleep urges me to
start anew,
wait until the waves
lap at my consciousness,
lull me into ignorance,
wipe the slate clean,
until the residue
accumulates
again.

How soon is now?
I never believed I could
empathise with Morrissey,
but the pressure,
seconds steady ticking,
is hard to comprehend
when you don’t know
where the
end is,
when you don’t know
how much time
is left.

So in silence I sit over skyline,
pristine and gleaming in
black and light,
sip a green tea and
reflect
but the glass wore out its reflection
and there’s nothing much left
worth dredging up from
before,
no steps worth retracing,
no more mileage that
meditation can
make up,
so the only way forward
is through no man’s land.

Every night alone
it comes,
the pressure
breaks the surface,
ghostly fingers
of imaginary lovers.

How Long Will It Be?

How long will it be?
The problem is not knowing:
it could be any moment
but it could be never.
Too much time alone
leads to loops,
leads to questions
like:

How long will it be?
When I travel forward in time
I see the past recede and shrink
into something so small
it barely exists.
It makes things easier,
but when I lose faith
I ask:

How long will it be?
and for whom do I build this
structure
if not only for myself?
I had imagined
the foundations strong enough to let
someone share this castle
with me.

So
how long will it be?
I stand amongst the debris
and try to fit the pieces together;
shake a fist at the sky;
and still the hope
of an unearned happy ending,
bought by a miracle,
persists.