90 minutes

Yes, we have

Changed Bodies

you-me-I-you ...

maybe that's why

I don't feel here

anymore

and you're 

content with your place

we've shifted 180

I open and open

into a gusty vacuum of heart

and all welled pre-Saturday's

found its way to my eyelids

Baby and Love reunite

Baby and Love are feeling heartbeats:
though no hands on pulse
they know they're alive

Love's flown far, as Love can
Baby speaks languages the angels left on his tongue

Baby and Love hurt over a bottle of wine
over a few hundred kilometres
over two easy weeks
needing touch but
touching scalds their palms

Baby's put her heels on
sweated her skin clean
re-figured herself

she's worded harsh to Love
but Love knows
Baby's harsh is of heart
he still takes her to her bedplace
still wraps Baby up
Love still loves her, his baby Baby

... ghost hears them quietly,
her earthly weight suddenly apparent
because the most beautiful things are also the saddest

the TV plays on,
no-one, quiet,
ghost retreats
to some small space sadnecessarily.

"This world beats all around me but nothing here feeds to satisfy, 
so I've grown this face
perfect in disguise so you don't know what I feel each moment

I don't fit here
I feel like I don't fit anywhere

Make your first move and decide to be conscious 
and god of each moment

Let's see if I can change
I want to feel something here
but I don't wanna change

faster than I used to feel
so faster than I ever dreamed."

- Lines, Dead Letter Circus. 

ebbs and flows -

like the tide, I'm currently

out 

boutique

got to
keep face
when all I want to do is
put my head under
(or out)

the water on my back
like the heat of you
opens up all of me

vulnerable

little change

My sadnesses used to feel full; intense and permeating. Now they feel small and melancholic; bland, empty. 

morning

how beautiful I feel 

after I've been 

with you 

"No one could pinpoint exactly when Estha had stopped talking... It had been a gradual winding down. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply ran out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha's silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy... A sort of dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha's case the dry season looked as though it would last for ever.

Once the quietness arrived, it stayed and spread in Estha. It reached out of his head and enfolded him in it's swampy arms. It rocked him to the rythm of an ancient, foetal heartbeat. It sent its stealthy, suckered tentacles inching along the insides of his skull, hoovering the knolls and dells of his memory, dislodging old sentences, whisking them off the tip of his tongue. It stripped his thoughts of the words that described them and left them pared and naked. Unspeakable. Numb. And to an observer therefore, perhaps barely there. 

Slowly, over the years, Estha withdrew from the world. He grew accustomed to the uneasy octopus that lived inside him and squirted its inky tranquilliser on his past. Gradually the reason for his silence was hidden away, entombed somewhere deep in the soothing folds of the fact of it. 

-- The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy