The pores of four walls

You can go home again,

to the place that houses your youth.

But don’t forget 

the memories you made.

They are folded away,

hidden in cubby holes,

permeating the walls.

They will whisper to you 

in the quietness of the night.

You reach out for comfort

but beside you is only emptiness,

you need to remember 

that is how it is now.

You can go home again                          

but how can you truly feel it

when you made your home 

in someone else?

The Palm House

​The ticking hands of time and
Many miles more than before is what lies between us now.

But still, I find myself in this place

That’s so similar to what I once called ours.

So I sit on a bench in the same way I did before

And let my hand creep into the empty space that was yours.

The earth smells different to how I remember it but what I remember most is you.

Your hand chained to mine, like I was your anchor.

I had to stay on the ground while your eyes drifted away to the solitude in your mind.

I always felt like they should shine brighter, your eyes

But they were suffocated under the shadow of your sadness.

I found comfort in the smell of the tree-tinged air

The feel of the earth in my palm waiting for me to create something with it.

It wasn’t me who kept everything down

And I was never meant to be an anchor.