Your place next to mine, warmly impressed by you.
Close, but not touching.
A stray hair curled into the nest of your pillow,
the duvet humped in a clever spoof.
And there is your thumb in the toothpaste tube,
above mine, naturally.
I slip into the shell of your shirt,
nestle like a Russian doll,
close, but not touching.
My feet fit inside your prints in the snow,
heel to toe, backtracking.
I place two glasses, lip to lip,
we sip together, culaccino leaving
two perfect rings – close but not touching.
Note: Culaccino – an Italian word to describe the marks left on a table by a moist glass
‘Truth is simple,’ you said, ‘black and white,’
as fundamental as day and night.
You wooed me with brilliance, Kandinsky
explosions of vibrancy and light,
a pointillist impression of dreams,
riots of violets, deep seas of greens,
expressions of mauves, fantasies of Fauves.
You shade in crimson, ultramarine,
subsume me into your Rembrandt gloom,
me and everything else that you spun
on your ivory palm, eclipsing sky,
blue moons and buttercup yellow suns.
You took everything that I gave back,
consumed my radiance with a lack
of attention, devoid of reflection,
laid me down flat with slathers of black.
West Side Story
Spool back the years
light up the face of a spellbound girl
as she freezes the star-crossed lovers
in the frame of her fanciful mind.
Cue the music
as a prayer on the parting of lips
turn it up to the endless day
send it soaring over the envious moon
etch her heart with the score.
she’ll write her own moving script
step out of a bit-part role in a one act play
and shiver the stars to tears.
Stella Wulf lives in South West France and is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing with Lancaster University. Her work has been widely published and has been included in several anthologies including The Very Best of 52 (Nine Arches Press, 2015), three drops from a cauldron Lughnasadh 2015, and the Clear Poetry Anthology 2015. A retired Interior designer, she now spends her time up to her oxsters in paint and plaster.