It is a fault of yours
To fumble with words.
Search for hours, and emerge purely with silence;
Pick heavenly roses, but present them only when they have wilted.
Somewhere beneath your tongue, there is a forgotten dictionary.
It is a fault of this language
To package acidic words so they taste like caramel;
Dipped in something sweet, but filled with liquid white lies.
There are too many synonyms for ‘beautiful’-
You are not as ideal as they write you.
It is a fault of a writer
To have surrendered to words,
To cradle them like the last flowers of spring,
Swallow them like ambrosia even if they taste untrue,
Reluctant to squander even those that pierce her throat.
You tell me there’s a word for the way my hand fits into yours,
For the way I look on lazy Sunday mornings.
‘Perfect’, you say,
But my fingers have almost forgotten the touch of your skin,
And you have not seen me for the last 47 Sundays.
Say sorry all you want, but make the same mistakes over and over and you’ll never stop apologising
(Just ask Sisyphus).
Darling, aren’t you sick of asking for forgiveness? Don’t the words grind into your palate by now?
I’m starting to wonder how you came to be the one to teach me heartbreak poetry.
Tell me, is there a word that can bridge this distance between us?