the lines that stayed

each from a different poem

each continues to hold me

if you hold my hand 

long enough 

you’ll feel the fear

pulsing through palms

it is not just you, my darling 

it happens to us all 

i hope i gave you

wings

i hope i showed you

beautiful things

i hope, next time

you bloom twice as high

what a sacred thing

it is

to be alive

decorating dirt

with sweet-scented petals

sometimes I

brush my fingers along the lines

try not to cry

the poems are not always

an extravaganza

sometimes, my life

is summed up in two stanzas

there is poetry

in the margins of my workbook

and biscuits kept safely

in my first aid kit

for emergencies only

sometimes an emergency

is simply a shout for shortbread 

this is intricately intimate

if only it were infinite

indulgent and irresistible

in sickeningly small intervals

if i am even missed at all

i hope its by him

this feels deliciously tangible

like i can hold it

taste it

lick the euphoria from my teeth

and spear it

i find myself

smiling

i wrote the words, they healed my heart

a real act of serendipity

true love and sensitivity

practised in newfound vulnerability

what magic is stored in words

that brings such a release?

i write, put down all the trauma

to find serenity and peace

enthralled by the process of creation

i paint

my nails are bathed in artistry

these hands are finally mine

and when i have to undress them

they become a canvas

ready for next time.