The Music Box

She was the ballet dancer in a music box,

He discovered sitting in the corner of his hotel room,

With curiosity, he twisted the key till it would turn no more,

Opened the lid and dutifully she began to dance,

Singing the same song over and over,

Dancing around and around in circles,

Against the backdrop of her vanity mirror,

He left the room and left her alone,

Becoming dizzier and dizzier and more lightheaded,

Singing to herself, for hours on end,

Desperate to please, with an urgency to enchant,

Even though he wasn’t listening,

Even at distance and-

 

The mirror watched her enthusiasm gradually slow,

And every time she faced it,

A teardrop slid from her cheek.

 

When finally, he returned,

He closed the lid,

Silencing her song, and returning her to the dark loneliness,

Of the music box,

He didn’t spare her another thought,

She was little more than an ornament to him,

A curio, a toy,

Her song was too sweet to be trusted,

Her dance too predictable.

 

That’s what unrequited means baby-

 

One day a stranger will open the lid of that music box,

Excited to hear her sweet music for the first time,

Only to discover she’s been waiting around,

Long enough for the key to rust,

Her clockwork heart to become brittle,

and the only tune she’ll have left,

will be a remnant of a broken dream,

A slow fractured melody,

Her favourite song ended with ‘once upon a time’,

She’ll struggle to find the notes,

That made her sing,

She’ll remove her ballet shoes,

For good.

The Room

Before I moved here,
The room was clean, neat and tidy,
Pristine, there was a corner for guitars,
A corner for creating music,
A TV set and a bright sunny window,
No dust, no cobwebs,
No love.

I arrived and tidied up of course-

No!

I came in and trashed the place completely,
I gave it that shabby chic touch,
I hung the cobwebs and sprinkled the dust,
I gave it that squatters paradise look, with added glitter,
I left my muddy footprints on the carpets,
I left my lipstick on the rims of cups,
I made the cracks in the paintwork more apparent and,
I moved in to add that, left-overs-on-a-dinner-plate appeal,
Yes, I gave it that lived-in quality.

I gave it; me.

The fresh outlook on life you found my love-
Was me in all my chaotic glory,
No pretence left in my bones,
No appearances to live up to.

I turned down the silence,
Turned on the music,
And dimmed the lights.

The house is a ruin-
A few years’ have passed now, and the room is a pigsty,
Me, my stuff, my creative flair, my late-night brainstorms,
My creeping up the stairs.

 

While our guitars have been replaced with photography magazines,
Camera club paraphernalia stacked under the windowsill.

There’s a large artist’s easel, paint brushes in jam jars,
A desk covered in paint spatters, loaded with clutter, like-
Old compact discs, hairbrushes, tape measures and diaries,
Old books, new books, paperclips and lens hoods,
Cameras, hair scrunchies, keyboard, and mouse,
I can barely move about this desk let alone the house,
Trinkets and craft bits and microphones and a wool hat,
Jewellery wire, beads, and a cinnamon bun; half eaten.

There’s a corner dedicated to paint pots and tubes,
Art inks, pens, there’s art on every wall in this room.
You know I turned your world upside down,
Inside out and back to front, but,
This is home, and every room knows we’re alive!

Yeah, we should tidy this place more often than we do,
But the same chaos inside of me,
Is inside of you,
This room is a reflection,
Of a mutual truth, and affection,
Of passion and creation,
Of becoming and undoing,
Of unravelling and renewing,
Me and you.

Soulmates

When you find your soulmate,

You’ll know.

 

Your eyes shine,

You remember how to smile,

When you fall in love,

For the first, and final time.

 

You feel you’ve known each other forever,

Can’t imagine ever being apart,

You are two bodies,

Sharing one heart.

 

No matter how many others,

You have known and kissed,

And used the word ‘love’,

To describe it.

 

You have never truly loved,

Like this.