(with excerpts from nursery rhymes in red)

Dear Phil,

Do you see the shadow trudging behind me?

He’s very, very like me from the heels up to the head.

He’s taller, darker, emptier, and with him, every day is Groundhog Day.

So I’d crawl back under the covers and maybe in six weeks it’d be spring.

Dear Phil,

Some days are fast, but Thursday’s child has far to go.

So pour me a drink and ask if I fancy a fag.

Hold my head up and watch me from the glow of the cigarette.

Implore me to tell the truth,

and I’d tell you it’s not a phase;

It’s been winter since my 18th, and all my plants are dead.

My heart’s slow, my aura’s blue and the shadow is long,

But hope keeps me doubting,

Even as conviction is strong.

Dear Phil,

You and I were like a time after light.

After the sky split, and the light broke in, and you became my sunshine.

But with light comes shadow,

And without a shadow of doubt, I’d reach for the moon were it in your path.

This is what it feels like; to fly too close to the sun and survive.

I have a theory, I tell you. Your love encompasses all which I hate within myself, and it

grows, and it grows,

and with each passing moment, I think, I am a star on the brink of death,

So the photo of me you took a minute ago, is not so much as hideous as it was a

moment ago,

Now, I watch it from your eyes and it’s most lovely.

This is my theory, I tell you.

You make everything brighter.

Of all wonders of creation,

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Dear Phil,

The lady in the lift reads a book titled ‘Living With Christ’.

I don’t suppose she lives with you.

But if she does,

Do you watch as she gets ready at night?

Do you sit back and cross your legs, and for a split second,

just right before you light your cigarette, does the flame remind you of me?

This is what I think about.

Come with me to New Orleans.

I’m perpetually spiteful, perpetually angry, perpetually tired,

but on its crossroads, I’d call on my demons and I’d bury them.

Before push comes to shove, I’d come to you, and I’d rest my knives.

We’d build a home, and we’d make it a fortress, and we’d have a glorious time.

I’d dance around the house with a tea towel on my shoulder,

and even though people are like art,

even if we experience them in the moment, and if we’re lucky, go home with them,

I’d stay with you; always, I’d be your Goldfinch.

Tell me,

Can I come on the long weekend?

I’m running, nonstop, burning out, leaving sparks in the wake of my destruction.

I stink of death.

I’m beckoning to you,

For old times’ sake, will you meet me halfway?

This is the price I pay, and Icarus, and all who’d follow after us.

This is the hill Jack dies on,

And Jill comes tumbling after.

This is where you’d lay the carnations, and whisper your ‘forget me nots’.

But how could I?

When I am nothing but cosmic dust specks,

And when you step outside to smoke your cigarette,

Blow a smoke ring up for me.

Dearest Phil,

With Love.

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