Читать книгу She Must Be Mad: the bestselling poetry debut of 2018 - Charly Cox - Страница 13

It is what it is until it isn’t

Quite it anymore

Makes perfect logical sense, sure

But in eleven short words I don’t think you swirl the score

Of what I’m on about

I could mutter an uttering of offers

Words that cling to syllables as tightly as otters

In love

Did you know they never let go once they’ve found a mate?

Did you know that my slithering of truth wasn’t yours to emanate

Dissipate, dissolve upon your lips

As my truth became a movement and your hands became my hips

In a haze of a few Sundays

Of what I thought was it

But didn’t know that it could be something just one of us could quit

And that’s quite exactly it

It was what it wasn’t

Instead of a smattering of emails that will one day be forgotten

Instead of a flattering string of inhales that sung kindly until coughed out rotten.

Again these are all just words

Silly sold sentiments aren’t that tough

I could rhyme anything together and it’d still be enough

For you to know what I’m wittering on about is love

It is what it is until it isn’t

Quite it anymore

It’s tracing your finger on a back

That will soon traipse out the door

It’s wine on a Saturday and lies that you learn as foreplay

It’s lust in its golden hour

It’s kissing goosebumped in the shower

It’s handing over innocence to a dastardly power

Of frightening fragile fragments that someone can stack in their own tower

No choice in whether it cements a building for their ego or a fence around a field of flourishing flowers

All grown for you

It is what it is until it isn’t quite it anymore

Until you become loathsome for the quibbling quirks of comfort

And love writes as a rule to deplore

Makes perfect logical sense, sure

Until the it that isn’t and the was that wasn’t

Is just a silhouette of your insecurity

And truly nothing more.