(no subject)

[apiphile]

silhouettes in an east london flat

they are so gentle with each other
you can tell they don't hate each other at all;

when we are in the crystalising period of love
still growing our mineral skeletons
we exchange pieces of ourselves
stories and memories, words and habits
to create a structure that is two people
sometimes it lasts

other times the weather that drives people together
eventually pulls them apart
hands them umbrellas
and launches them back into the storm

romance should not be derived from pressure cookers
i wonder if there is anything to love in me;
the people who profess to find it
stab at shadows and howl at echoes
replicas of their own reflections
set up to dazzle them into compliance

there is no art in this science of serial seduction

there is a deformity of the eye
that allows you to see only the mundanity
the wretchedness and ugly reality;
shit-tinted shades
showing off the grim compromise
the worms at the core
and the lies

when we demolish the fabric of a certainty
it unravels between our fingers
leaving them stained and scratched
and it burns out the ladders
leaving no way back

they are gentle with each other
and i have forgotten how to stay my hand
or blunt my tongue
there is only antarctica to freeze my course
time to slow down
until i can hurt no one

they are gentle with each other
and i should have learned that trick
when i was young.