On the days of unbrushed teeth,
In the sanctuaries of our beds,
Please help us to accept our wisdom
In the glory of our grossness.
Give me that hot robot love.
Oil-slicked parts fitting together perfectly,
Tasting all of you with my cog-teeth kisses.
You and I are electric, baby.
We sit in empty offices
Performing empty tasks
For empty people
With empty minds.
Day by day
We feel ourselves empty
Still promising ourselves more.
There are no sparks of inspiration;
No celestial muse will stoke you to flame.
Instead trust your own resilient smoulder.
Brave hands cradle hot coals.
No unit of time captures precisely enough;
No combination of words adequately conveys:
The severity of my missing you,
The richness of my love.
Welcome yourself to Yesvember.
Accept one month of possibilities
Knowing that success is in trusting yourself.
So many worlds can be built in thirty days.
I clutch hard.
Wet eyes bulge wide.
I suffocate. I drown.
Culprit and victim.
Every single time.
Sitting on drafts.
Long-necked, leggy and awkward.
Giving way to flocculent notions.
Let prehensile tongues masticate
The roughage of verdant words.
Open-mouthed and wet.
Gulping and heaving.
A suffocating realisation
That you may never possess the capacity
To differentiate my laughter from my sobs.
Bathe the body.
Perfume the shroud.
Wrap in odd numbers.
Lift on four shoulders.
Abstain from make-up.
Remain at home.
Four months and ten days.