A Poetic Guide to Literature and Love, Part 2

how to apologise

admit that your word is not the bible

and i do not wake up every sunday morning

to kneel in front of you with praying hands

and guilt sitting leaden in my heart

the first glass of wine after

you ran your knife neatly down my spine

washed down my desire to tattoo your faults

like a stamp on your forehead

but still i could use just a fingertip

reaching out into the echoes

that exist between our warring egos

from the last time i told you i loved you

don’t leave me standing knee deep in a river

of cement on the curb with bullets

rushing past my ears made of glass and feathers

but travelling so fast they scar the same

take my bony hands in yours

and knead them until they become clay

pliable and dripping pink and blood red

to fill the cracks in the tiled floor

draw the wire tight between our eyes

hand me the sharpest pair of scissors you own

and live your life to the rhythm

of the hourglass sitting on your bedside table

attach your eyelashes to your widow’s peak

and let your lips become lovers

and let trains arrive at the station

between your ears and

stop saying sorry and be sorry