When the day forces us to part,
you to your work, I to mine,
I feel the tug of withdrawal symptoms
from your second-hand smoke;
tingling on my lips,
static into the shape of letters
of words not to speak yet.

Maybe you feel it too,
as you kiss me on the forehead,
assured that it will, eventually,
seep through to my brain.
Kiss the static into my eye socket;
make everything rose.
Kiss the static into my thighs, my neck;
we keep it kinetic,
shivering with the memories,
and now when I lay down
I only see you,
leaned against a red brick wall,
waiting for you to see me.

‘I bet you know just where to stand next to a campfire.

Without getting too hot, or smoke in your eye’


The inability to articulate burns away the writer,
leaves just a girl, reduced to a child;
soft and loved, tucked into the place your neck curves to your shoulder.
Your eyes stare straight ahead while mine close,
assured that I will feel the moon,
that is what I sense inside, I don’t need my eyes.
And it’s a rare occasion
to find comfort in the dark,
but nothing can get us, nothing would hurt me here
in this open garden because it’s ours.
We stumble over ways to say more than ‘I love you’.
The words seem only lukewarm
in a fire, the hear makes the cold breeze hurt,
nothing we whisper understands, not enough.
Maybe it need not be said,
already there in a carrier bag of compromise,
I’ll get your favourite flavour,
you tell me I taste good.
Eat in our underwear, tell me I’m sweet,
try again with words in the dark,
but we say enough falling asleep.
Leave the door unlocked,
held hands on the night watch.


I wish to come to your ear
and sing hallelujah, soft, slow,
melt myself to your request
of simple nights, simple mornings,
black out blinds that don’t work,
and a flooded ashtray.
make yourself at home here
-in me.
Burrow into the places inside me
you found mirrors,
replace each with a failed shot on film
of pale skin in a bed
pale skin in a village past town.
Make yourself at home
-in the up and down of my voice,
and I’ll make mine
in your smokers cough.
I hear it when you whisper,
hot breath of the 8am sentiments,
before we hold each other half conscious,
before I make you coffee to moisten your cigarette.
make yourself at home, here
-in me,
in a haven of a city back garden,
still white sheet,
still new promises,
still fresh forever in a still early summer.


By Lucy Harbron