You don’t pull Luther out the back of the cupboard for one principle to hide him behind the Holocaust for another. History is a tow truck that’s skidded on the M5 and his heading straight for you.


And upon kissing the galaxies sink into my pockets for safe keeping.

She wishes she could believe he did no wrong.

Feeling she lost more water.                    Her hero lost his way.

Forget the drowning world, drying out.

Fingers fiddle, nails on skin, skin on leg, sweaty thumbs. Then they tap: ring-finger to pinky, ring-finger to pinky. Tap, nail, tap, tap, beat. Her knuckles clench against her knees. Squirm.

I don’t know where I heard it, but I was once told that each person who enters your life comes like a tide. Basically, what they were saying is people pull us. Have the potential to drown us.