Alan Fielden

Throw,
the first stone, lover.
Who brought me from nothing
and to whom I have given less.
If I lie and promise sunlight,
would you understand.

And when I flail, through glassy words and porous silence.
Can I smile and say,
“That wasn’t me”?

Whilst the moon, calm and bare, reflects the inferno so honestly?

That three-tier phrase, the pyrrhic one,
that means one to the mouth
and two to the ear,
how far can you throw it?
Trust it thus.
Before love there was a feeling that needed a name.

We gathered today to live and love;
ever after there will be nothing ever was and what then to whom…
He thinks of his heart, and the thought combusts;
To do so is sacrificial.
Like a kite,
run with me.
I’ll do tricks for you.
Beneath a chorus of kisses that form constellations of wishes.

“I wish I had loved you more”, remain the worst words.

Instead, calculate the weight of a million nerves waiting for a kiss to the lips.
The core to the string to the skin to your sandpaper lips,
etched with a hundred wallpaper cracks that peel in winter,
to the tongue to the muscles that writhe like no muscle should.

And think no more of