“Right,” He said, eyes roving over her with interest, “What can you bring to the marriage?”
She looked at him as if he were the only man in the room; to her, he was the very oxygen she needed in order to survive, “I will love you with every fibre of my being. Until I die, everything that I am will be yours.”
He nodded slowly, “Right… erm, but can you iron a straight pleat in formal trousers? It’s really an essential skill in a woman, you know?”
Every night, she read the same book.
It became her nightly escape; dancing into the world that she encountered on the crisp pages.
Until tragedy struck one stormy night.
Her dingy bedsit caught fire.
Everything was destroyed, except for a book of fairy tales that lay on the charred remains of the bed.
Pages scorched; it lay open as if it had just been read.
Except that, no body was ever found.
We talk of young love
as if it’s the only love that matters.
Those heady days fade.
No, talk to me about old love.
With its gentle patina of well-worn comfort.
Of another, knowing your thoughts,
knowing what makes your heart race with joy,
laying down dreams so you can find yours.
Talk to me of choosing the same one,
over and over,
even when it’s hard.
And one day to finally have our hands untwined by
– Talk to me of old love.
I am more than my accent.
Can you not hear it?
I am the rich voice of my people,
echoing across the oceans;
over the centuries
they whisper to me,
‘You are not alone,
we too are here.’
He was not afraid of the walls around her heart.
Her defences were not to be conquered;
but gently dismantled.
One rock at a time.
Until the light shone into her darkest places,
and she could find her way out.
– Stepping Stones.
I caught every stone you threw at me,
and built myself a fortress.
How safe I feel,
by these strong walls.
How I wish,
that they weren’t quite so high.