To the boy downstairs

Around my window,
there used to be some quite flattering ivies,
and that’s the only thing made me feel something,
if anything at all.
But I heard you, last night.

And now,
under my bed, there escapes out the morning mist,
like the jellyfish, like the octopus,
stinging me, scratching me, squeezing me,
and tiptoeing upward through my wires.

Whilst I see my ankles rusting,
and I hear my chip rasping,
I eventually know,
that on the other side of my floor,
there sticks a whirlpool of ceiling,
under which hangs a jar.

“So far away”.
says each of the thousands of hundreds of leaves in the jar.
And that’s why I would have envied you.
But they were shredded, of course,
as ruthlessly as the beta me would do.

And hence, I am no longer in void,
thanks to you.


I like that we can have comfortable silence,
with shadows and lights on,
like mouths full of fresh time
sealed in icebergs, where
tension’s never cracked.

Nor has surprise ever mattered,
when we pack up all the serenity,
and glitter under the sunlight.
We are fine.

And they’d weigh a planet of curiosity to defy:
that I am the wings curled up on your back,
and you are the soul plants ease in my body.

Written on the night before Valentine’s Day