my sweet prince - ramblings from a back seat.

you smell like leather.

like jean paul, rolled cigarettes, old music sheets and silver.

until I leave the sun behind me, you are there.

you remind me of an old banjo, of Dylan on a rainy afternoon, of good weed.

the kinks and strangers on a train. the Darjeeling limited.

I am a broken knitting needle, not much use yet.

broken tiles and a kingdom up for sale.

nail polish and eyeliner. lashes dark and supple. a waterloo sunset.

searching for a familiar face, some recognition.

corsets, Marlboro reds and dark chocolate. you are these things.

chain-smoking, god-fearing, sinning.

poems written on a Sunday, bourbon drank on a Monday.

boy – I want to be with you, all day and all of the night.

ex-boyfriends, no faith.

underwear mothers don’t want to know about.

here’s wishing you the bluest skies and hoping better comes tomorrow.

it’s really nice to see you smile.

I’m ok.

so you found me. I was hiding, you with your Hemmingway and me with my lost notions of baffling, powerful and cunning delight.

my vulnerability and your cocky self-assuredness. your asshole boundaries and my willingness to chase you around the country side.

you are not here to make me happy. I know I can only do that now. friendships created in dark underground bars.

friendships created for life but relationships that are like the wings of a moth – they fade and die when faced with daylight. my anger and rage, compounded by a self loathing that never dissipates. a problem I want you to fix. but you can’t give me anything but heartache.

I know, doubt. doubt makes me run, a fear of losing control. friends who seemed strong but wilted in the heat of an alcoholic blaze. you are clinging to my brain like the way clothes do after you’ve been skinny dipping.

that made no sense. you’ve done nothing but piss me off. made me feel inadequate in my fears, my naivety and vulnerability. you haven’t made my cunt feel like my heart does, but you promised you would. my scars and my stories of heartache. you with your grandiose ideas of love and being a writer. you have no idea.

You were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew.

I smoke another cigarette with
no consequence, and no conclusion.
Only wasting my body heat in the cold,
only wasting my breath on tar and nicotine;
one heavy breath closer to the last.

All your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse.
Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt.
Better find yourself a place to level out.