I drew my thoughts all over her walls,
like a child with a crayon,
screaming for somebody
to appreciate the straight lines
and attention to detail
in how we communicate.
Do we always need
I scribbled messages of hope and fatigue,
exhaustion and desire
and all the while, I couldn’t help but to consider her
and stronger than I could ever hope to be.
– Aaron Kent
They walked not knowing what to say.
Where shall we go? What shall we do?
I don’t know. Up to you.
Perhaps, if either can now recall it,
down the back of some quiet lane,
there was a low-slung red-bricked wall
with faded yellow mortar lines,
buried deep behind a privet hedge
(or maybe it was some evergreens).
They squeezed in-between, wading ankle-deep
through the faded wrappers of crisps and sweets.
He sat down, unslung his bag.
She smoothed her dark-green skirt
then threw away her cigarette
and stumbled in among his legs.
they kissed. Her mouth was wet, his eyes were open.
The empty packets spoke in rustles round their feet
and the evening died, staked out between the leaves.
(The pines? The hedge? The trees?)
Do they still remember now
how all that ever mattered hung, just then,
taught upon two straining tongues
as twenty teenage fingers swum
through that stucklimbed well of silence?
– Niall Bourke