I'll Spell It Out For You

I can't write things I haven't felt.

Think I lack imagination?

Think again.

The many things I imagine myself to be

are as colourful as the language I use

to berate myself for letting these images run alongside me

more often than not

leading the way down a path

I shouldn't be on.

The space between us is imagined.

Or rather I imagine what fills this space.

Colours, textures

waves and surges

asteroides.

We negotiate.

Slide and dodge,

bargain.

Colours clash.

I'm imagining a torrent of

bright tartan and sleet

that meets

sandpaper gravel

and gushing pink and purple.

I know it isn't real

perhaps that's why I'm spelling it out for you

so I'll have something to hold on to

and you'll have a picture

painted in

unfinished sentences

that doesn't look quite the way it did

in my mind

but will have to do.

Parity

We're writing letters
to past lovers

hers is sealed and stamped
and sent off hastily,

mine has five chords
and a chorus that
isn't quite right yet

I need to make it rhyme
without manipulating facts
to fit
form and rhythm.

We feel we can
be honest
here
where we can be naked
within the privacy of
these four walls

when lies are the most
common currency
in current public exchange

(because they'll buy you more
than truth, so everyone seems to think)

Is parity
ever likely?

Will the decimal places
that separate
honesty
and calculated deception
ever even out?

Is my truth
worth
more or less
than your lie?

And what value is lost in the
conversion
of one
to
another?

The Players

We toss around
tired cliches
until one
or
both
of us gets tired

and calls it off.

Stalemate.

'I'm not playing.'

Childish, I know

but when you can't figure out
the next move

(or when you know you're being beaten)

It seems easier
to
just
walk away.