thelibraryrooms

We are starved ghosts, with hollowed out eyes
We speak in tongues, our language our own

The rhythm of the music taps out a beat
Which we keep to, the exhaustion defeats

We hide behind memories and moments
We are not lost, but you would not find us

Here we are safe, the things that we saw
Are behind us now, in front something else

Something that we need not fear, fulfillment
Engulfs us, fills us, then shifts our focus

We wander the maze that was without a way out
Now we know how to leave, but chose instead to stay

This road is her fate
One of three things could happen
EITHER
Driving home
After catching
The last train back
From London
She will take the bend too fast
OR
On foot
Running its length
At night during
The months of her
Winter training
The car that stops,
Bizarrely halts,
Will contain a twisted killer
OR
Travelling home
Late one winter night
From some party
The taxi driver
Will hit black ice
And lose control of his car
HER FATE
Lies on this road
well-journeyed
inevitable
One of three
possibilities
Running
Driving
Travelling
One of three

The place is full
Each room crowded
A white lady
Well-dressed
The boy from the lake
Leaves a trail of tears
And water stains
Boatswain
Rabid and crazed
Flecked with foam
Headless horsemen
Clichés
In amongst them
Cats killed on roads
Mothers and fathers
Lost boys
An abbey filled
Heroes and villains
Monks, Abbotts, brothers
The history of others

Your skip to the city
This time
Is in daylight

You catch
Winter sun
On your face

As you wait
Chance the tube
For a change

Unusual for you
A preference
For buses not trains

You have time
In your hands
Space to reflect

Connect, sad songs
Slow journeys
Strangers

Coffee bars
Are places to wait
Watch and wait…

We talk in tongues
Speak our language
We are misunderstood

We follow the signs
Stare down the strangers
We want to be understood

Ambition makes us fools
Our expertise is nothing
Still we can communicate

Sign language signifies
Our dignity, we are articulate
Shape our artful souls

Into sweet shapes of sound
We are heard by singers
And silent sleepers

He was fact
I was fiction
We met in the middle with music
Our common ground
Was the record player churning out:
The Smiths, Pixies, Joy Division

We met on a dance floor
Which we never left
Grew older listening to new stuff
Alongside the classic tracks
Never grew tired of the talk
Of lyrics and melodies

He was the fact to my fiction
He could quote lines
Recall intros
Win the pub quiz with some obscure
Knowledge that only he had
From Saturdays spent at gigs

He was my fact
My one solid line
In a world made of fiction
He was that which made it all OK
The cassette tapes and 12″s we listened to
Festive Fifties, Peel Sessions, all special, all true

Asleep in the back of the car, sometime, night
The way home, paused, stopped by a light

Ring road, Beechdale baths, the Home Ales building
Halted again by a blue light winking

You puzzle your tired eyes half open
See the accident, see the policeman

The black cat of darkness rocks you to sleep
Your eyes flicker with dreamings, dreams you want to keep

The road home lengthens into darkness
You shift in your sleep, turn on yourself, restless

The black cat catches you again, whispers
Touches your eyes with his whiskers

You fall into sleep, so deep you are dreamless
Nearly the end of the road, nearly home, never sleepless

An endless summer
That drew us out from mildewed flats
Into photographs taken at barbeques
When shadows lengthened out
And our city burnt under crisped out sunshine
A quality of light we never knew again

Endless roads that looped and ran
Past houses where we partied
Friendships formed and fastened into lifetimes
That stretched out, front and back
Forward into unknown worlds and thoughtless cares
Back into pasts that we once shared

Nights that never ended
When we climbed through broken fences
Drank wine at midnight in strangers’ houses
Made pacts and false pretences of perfection
Called our sophisticated turn of phrase
A European affectation that we brought back with us

Conversations without end and cigarettes smoked
Until hoarse, we ran out of words to say
And how we laughed
Our youth, all that vigour and vitality
That we brought back
In that year when we returned

The bottle of champagne that I didn’t drink with you on New Year’s Eve
The love song that I downloaded but you never heard

The tickets for the Christmas party that we never went to
The reservations for the hotel that we never stayed in

The words that I wrote, but never said
The gift that I bought, but never gave

The dress that you were supposed to see me in
The T-shirt that I bought to wear out and impress you
On a night that never happened
The smile that I still wear whenever I think of you

Here are the memories,
The list of the mundane and extraordinary
Here they are; they belong to you

He looks to his left
He looks to his right
Something is wrong
She is gone

In the space where she stood
She left a trace

An element
Of herself

On her left
On her right
She wore a smile

He looks for her in the corners
Expects to find her
Checks left
Checks right
She has gone

On his left
On his right
There is the gap
where she sat

Something doesn’t feel right
She’s gone