My hair was a crown and
I was a horse
as you walked past the house
and I galloped across the road.
Hooves against glass
I peered through the café window, only
to see us eating eggs
in the dark;
our smiles glowing over coffee,
butter that I thought was cheese and
across the years
that have passed.
It was silent inside and
I snorted. The chairs were stacked high
on the tables that were islands
and menus fluttered like leaves
to the freshly washed floor.
I am not a runner
but as I lie on my side
waiting for sleep to come
because nothing else has
for the longest of times
it's like I've been running
I am on the run
and I've been caught mid-stride, mid-leap
one foot tucked under a thigh, arms
outstretched, expectant, in welcome
or for balance
and I try for the longest of times
to remember what it's like
to lie side-by-dangerous-side
and stop all this running.
There have only been waking states;
holding the morning back with my hands
holding the curtains closed
against thick light
that becomes so easily thin
and frayed at the edges.
It slips through my fingers,
clings to the particles of dust
that lurch through the air;
grounded, small patches of joyful filth
making a home on my clothes and skin.
His top lip curls when he says my name and
standing too close he asks a question
he doesn't want an answer to,
the sound of his own voice pearls
in his cloth-ears
sodden with vowels.
The king of that unwanted morning
asks how I am and laughs
when I answer, laughs
before I've even answered
and under the covers
dust under dust
I kill him nightly in my dreams.