when It ended, they huddled together. hands sunk in someone else's pockets, shivering beneath patchworks they'd stitched along the way. one's eyelids sagged and drooped and dropped to close. 'if this is The End' they said 'i don't want to see it.' another shoved them upright and held on tight. The last star began to fade.
Soon the sky was black.
The two sat, hand in hand, and stared in to the dark.

In the beginning there was God, or King Kong, depending on who you spoke to. In the beginning there was God AND King Kong, sharing a pokey bed-sit above a shop in the Nevada desert. They both agreed it was a nice enough place for the first apartment, even though King never kept the place tidy and God was always a few days late with his rent. They were, for the most part happy.
In the beginning there was a man who carved lovers from his bones.
In the beginning there was a chicken and an egg.
There was a single flower.
There was a seed.
In the beginning there was no land, no sea. Or there was sea but no land. No rushing waves to rocky shores. There was still.
There was a single star. There was sky. There was a wish.

on holding the man i love (and taking up the bed at night to do so)

like a game
of sardines
i fold
in to your decline
stretching my fingers
over any flesh
i can find
and claim
as some wary explorer
with a tiny flag 'i was here!' 'i discovered this!'

in these small moments i try
to memorise everything
i venture,
taking frantic notes
of scars, angles, textures-
love measured in your very form,
life measured in these little journeys.

i want to slide
through any open cavity
latch on
to your blood cells
find home
somewhere beneath
your skin

hoping i can match your beat.

(what a terrible collection of words.)

this time i belong in a matchbox of your collection.

i hope it is wrapped beautifully, i hope i rest on a cotton ball gently torn to hold
my frame and sometimes when you wake you open me up like a gift you never told you wanted.

place me tenderly there
(i shatter at your touch)