Last night I eddied wakeless,
down my well of secrets, where
I rushed to swallow the sound of myself
– it rippled far too much of a dread.
Down the well I felt, a life that I’ll never know
watching me glide – although
the threat of water only trickled in drops,
the air has already resigned to choke.
Washed up on the morning
I found someone new under my skin;
alive, breathing and already awake
sitting drinking the sun on my bed.
Her newborn thoughts fresh and pink,
cut holes in my perfect morning routine.
‘Is this what tea tastes like? Do I just hang my hands –
otiose down the sides?’
You live your names for the many, many calls
in every mirror, bead and bone.
How long before we lose sight
of the ocean between our secret souls?