I want to try it your way this time

you blew into the glass with all your strength

the frost was careful around your fingerprints

but heartless everywhere else

and as your chest deflated

your cheeks were pink and fleshy and alive

we'd slept a while between morning and afternoon

the sheets were twisted where we had lay

our frames were over there

but you were next to me too

her side, his side

yet gold was falling out of your fingertips

filling in the spaces on the floor

you tried to pick it up but couldn't

so I held you

and we tried together

but your eyes were waning

and I couldn't recognise you anymore

you took the main line to your trip

now the glass had fallen 

and the frost was overwhelming 

the honey was escaping from us

and we tried to trap it but it was always changing

so we strained ourselves

we took what we could and ran

but the wind was pulling

the chill in the glass was in us but we couldn't tell

you made a note of it on the fridge

but now it was all gone

and so were we.



The honey falling off the edge of the table is one of my favourite cinematic moments.  I really appreciate moments of film that utilise the simplest of concepts to let you pinpoint significant instances of amazing auteurism; it's a viscera that's almost tactile, and it's even better when it resonates and builds in you long after you've finished watching.  When film and art and literature converge so nicely I think it's impossible not to be electrified. 


The printed poem is by E.E Cummings. More of him soon.  
The other is my response, and a reserved plunge into publishing my work with you!