H.E Warfield

Every time you walk in the rain, I can feel the drops on my skin.

Every time you gaze at the stars, I dream specks of light.
...

Welding me to him with amorous glances.
I am just another shadow following my Casanova.
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What does your heart digest in your most private hour?
What does your mind disgorge in your most contemplative moments?
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Catatonic, I gaze out the window. The curtains dance but I feel no breeze.
Mouldy dishes piled in the corner; I knowingly throw my favourite scarf over them, out of sight until I regain my sense of smell.
I don’t dare leave my bed today nor answer my phone.
Missed appointments, unpaid rent, and friends lecture clichés.
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I lost a letter today, a sentimental letter never to be duplicated.
Words never to be said, written or seen again.
God! You may as well burn all of my belongings too!
It feels as though the person who wrote it is dead.
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Quietness in waiting my hearts enduring,
Absence of moaning is my minds perseverance,
Anonymity is my character thriving,
Resistance of pleasure is my body’s privation.
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The smell of scotch and glasses meeting, Is surely the sound of two men reminiscing.
They hang their heads with heavy memories taking another stubborn sip to dilute their defeat.
Asking why and what if, analysing every theory.
They speak of God and faith, gambling and scotch, Women and children, Work and success.
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Five pairs of earrings,
carelessly spread across the window sill.
Bobby pins fallen,
scattered on the carpet below.
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Dancing and twirling like the leaves in autumn,
The wind carries me.
Running fast, one with the current,
Like water I will slip through your fingers.
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Coiling up onto a foreign couch, wrapped in
another man’s sheets of sweat and passion fueled filth.
The softness of the cushions, the caress of material
that’s unfamiliar and not my own.
...