Monday
I travelled through the night to try and find you
Tuesday
Awake in the far away
it could be July or December,
bones rattled under sleeping blankets
like a beggar’s hand cupped to receive silver
Wednesday
Perchance to dream my way back to
the music of our rains
and broken landscapes
Thursday
Maybe you can pack overnight baggage with despair?
Friday
Sunrise over a Christmas market, somewhere,
tinsellitis in hollows of a church bell
knells the sadness of my hand coming
Saturday
Old long since
Forward>>Pause//Play
I could smell the perfume
dripping from Hepburn’s neck
as she strummed Moon River into my heart
Drifters always drift
or so it seems
Sunday
Hungover in excelsis
waiting for the first train from Sea Central
full fathom 06.55 to destination unknown
Seasick, but still weighed to the harbour
insomnia becomes more natural than bleeding
Rob, your poem drifts like a half-remembered dream, tender and yearning. Each day carries longing, memory, and desire. The way you reach for someone across nights and cities is heartbreakingly beautiful. Even sleeplessness feels like a lover in your words.
Beautifully done
Thank you Roma. Life becomes a two-storey building collapse, with past on one level and present on the other. The trick is to navigate through the rubble.