Turn around where possible.

My heart complicates the situation,

It takes the fourth exit on the roundabout into the half finished construction site,

As it wants to see something new, something being built.

It goes three exits too far on the motorway,

The long way round, makes sure it’s tired and can rest.

It works triple shifts and long hours, it takes pictures of you and turns them into perfect daydreams, it refuses to be unemployed.

My hands are so restless,

They find themselves clicking out words on a digital chalkboard describing in infinite detail the ways I would love you,

They roll cigarettes and order alcohol and do whatever they can to distract from the fact that they should be creating something new,

But they write these words that never help, they just complicate, obfuscate, turn passion into tension. And then tension into confusion.

But by god can they turn a tune out, order nonsense on the internet, remember spellings of obscure words I’ve not written in a decade.
They’re a beautiful burden.

My feet ache,

Pushing this tired frame down on size eleven pale white masses of bone,
that shuffle this husk from
place to place, bar to bar,

That dance and sway in the dead of night.

That carry you home when you’ve drunk too much or drive you home when I’ve not drunk enough.

That would run to you until the bones fragment,
until the blisters make my eyes water,
until I’m hysterical with agony,
and still they would take me to you.
They would never let me crawl.

Turn Around Where Possible.