escapology.

One day we’ll be together.
One day there’ll be no more goodbyes.
No more standing heartbroken on train platforms,
No more waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting,
To see your face again.

The feeling of longing will be just a memory,
Replaced with the warm fulfillment
Of feeling complete.
Instead of tapping on phone keys,
We’ll whisper in darkness,
And never again
Will it be almost time to go.

Emma, I’d travel to the end of the Earth just to see you again
But it would be nice if I didn’t have to.

If this train’s going forwards, why does it feel like we’re going back?
Back to the place where we first met, so you can go
Back to the place you call home, and we can go
Back to being apart.

It’s only four stops now.
Four stops before we say goodbye.
Four stops before prickly eyes.
Four stops before we’re alone again.

It’s not forever.
Only a month.
But, fuck, that month is going to feel like forever
Now we know what we could be doing instead.

Now we’re here.
We’re on the platform.
Your train gets here too fast.
I need more time.

More time to tell you that I

Restless, we wait.

Each precious minute we
Pray for infinity,

For some kind of fate,

Or some fearful divinity,
Raw with hostility,

To carry the weight

Of our human fragility
And all liability,

And perhaps recreate

The simple tranquility
Of mental virginity,

We have since escaped.

But there’s no holy trinity,
And no grand epiphany.

So restless, we wait.

She doesn’t see people, so much as observe them.
Watching with an expression of curious amusement,
         a child watching an ant.
She seems to find charm in places others wouldn’t even think to look,
As if to her, existence alone is a thing of beauty.

It’s rather appropriate, I suppose,
         that this makes her all the more beautiful to me.

The clocks march on, unfalteringly marking out the seconds before our eventual, inevitable demise. And yet, their purpose is beaten into brutal, hopeless futility by the fact that we can never truly know when exactly it will take place.

It will happen. That much is certain; one of the few unerring truths we have left. But how many times the pendulum will swing between the beginning and the end of our all-too-brief storyline will remain a mystery until it is far too late for the knowledge to be of any use to us.

So we’re left with no choice, nothing to do but count the seconds, the hours and the years, and wonder when, at last, it will happen.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Contains violence, and mild swearing.

Monday morning. Ten to eight.

The dawn’s early rays penetrate softly through the half-curtained window, as if awakening blearily, grudgingly, for another day. The sunlight glances softly off the light terracotta tiles, scattering widely across the smooth granite worktops.

The kitchen takes a deep breath, enjoying the calm before the inevitable, Monday-morning-school-rush storm. A single crystal drop lingers at the mouth of the tap, before dropping, almost lazily, into the bowl below.

In the distance, a rumble of quiet thunder: someone makes their way clumsily down the stairs, flowed by the slower, lighter footsteps of another. The blissful silence of morning is gone, destroyed by the invasion of the day’s preparations.

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I’m not trying to sound morbid,
I don’t want to be depressing,
These words are just the thoughts,
To which my mind keeps digressing.

But what if this is it
And our time is only finite?
And what if you and I do
Not make it through this night?

Shut up and kiss me,
Kiss me while we still can.
Just live for right now,
There’s no time to make plans.

I don’t want to think,
Of what’s ‘round the next bend.
I just want to be,
With you until the end.

I love your perfect imperfection.

I love your slightly awkward way.

I love how we can talk,

For hours,

About anything.

Or nothing.

Until the sun comes up, 

Or my phone battery dies.