Weird and awkward, odd and strange;

a set of quirks as broad as a mountain range.

Never really fit in but can’t seem to fit out –

what, really, is fitting all about?

If I can’t fit here, there, now or then,

will I fit somewhere – and if so, when?

Yes, yes you will – the “when”, I can’t say,

but when you fit with yourself,

you’ll be well on your way.

Speak (fiction)

I could have said it, but I didn’t. I should have said it, but I didn’t. I would have said it…but I didn’t.

As a result, I find myself full of coulds, shoulds and woulds instead of the contentment their removal would have assured me.

It still feels somehow as if that feeling is only an arm’s length away, although when I remember to drink my daily/weekly/bi-annual dose of reality, I’m reminded that the distance between this current version of myself and what could have been is actually much greater.

“Help” shouldn’t feel like such a difficult word to say.

Lately I’ve been dreaming that it isn’t.

The phone rang yesterday as I sat on the verandah in the sun. It could have, it should have, it did.

Love isn’t the same.

Love isn’t the same

as cold fingers creeping

under the edge of your shirt

looking for warmth in a back alley behind a bar

half-smoked cigarettes dotting the ground

thrown down in the fog of smoke

when a craving for skin to skin contact

overpowers the lust for nicotine.

Love isn’t the same

as a body pressed against grimy brick

in the darkness

allowing foreign hands and tongues to explore

what once was sacred.

Love isn’t the same

as an empty bank account

overdrawn so a few more shots of vodka

could erase the taste of a stranger,

blur the image of them

into a watercolour painting in your mind

that looks more like the landscape

of your past

than like the face of a shadow

you’d stopped in the night to ask

“Will you love me?”

“Will you love me?”, you’d asked

with a kiss you’d try to rinse

from your memory

with mouthwash and tears

in the morning.

Love – it isn’t the same.