Pistachio
Bittersweet farewells
Tasting salty tears
Trickle down
The hard beige shell
Of pale cheeks
Not a tough nut to crack
Not at all
Not anymore
Gone all soft
Little delicate child
Crying
Sobbing
Dripping
Trickling down
Upon a pistachio coat
Pencil
I trace the curves of her skin as she sits on marble museum stairs
swirling the lead in rings for her chestnut curls, as the coils fall upon her shoulder.
Her beauty captured on parchment in tones of granite grey, she doesn’t care
that the charcoal smudges on my hands stain her cream cardigan as I hold her.
I draft poems in notebooks she has bought me for every Christmas and birthday,
accompanied with small illustrations of towns we visited, and cocktails shared.
Writing poems in a café in small countryside villages, I know, a wannabe Wilde,
but for the way she makes me feel I could never have been prepared.
I sketch blueprints for kitchen tables and shelves she wants for our future house,
as soon as the deposit is paid, I’ll take a measuring tape and pencil to every wall.
Outlining our future together, soon I’ll draw her as my spouse, and-
when I’ve figured out the dimensions, these floors will be where our child learns to crawl.
Flight of the dragonfly 