Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.

Home Message Archive about & links
« / »
smoking hay / dying

The clouds, tonight, are tinged red:
embers of the night’s ashtray.

Two girls kiss outside a bar.
A man inside plays the cello
soulfully. No one listens.

Women disappear into the sky.
Men weep, count days carefully.

Someone quietly cuts their thigh
in two, sets the muscle alight

We are burning like the night.

We are a smoker’s cough
in God’s throat.

We are quiet and quiet and quiet.

I am like Springtime with you.

When you smile at me with those sand-crinkled lips,
Spring blooms inside my chest. In biology, they taught us
that the bronchiole were the roots of flowers plunging down
from the buds of our lips, deep deep within the soil of my lungs.
Kissing you is like the dawn of day, and the petals in my heart
open, open wide to caress the sunlight

Those kisses bloom into the fiery heat of summer,
and my skin is set aflame.
I am a canvas and you are the painter. Your fingers
brush the burning red of romance onto my pale skin,
and I become the artwork of sensuality, for all to see.
My flushed cheeks, you say, are worthy of being seen
in the Louvre. That only makes me burn the more,
and I melt away.

It’s in the moments between light that your caresses
turn chilly, your hands crackling like fallen leaves underfoot.
You glow so beautifully in the sunset, but when I hold you close,
you chill me to the bone. It is so silent in the fall.
How can I not dwell so deeply
on the coming frost?

And then, the sea in your eyes
rages, waves crashing down onto the shore of my skin.
A winter storm, you see. I cling to the rickety wooden boat
you threw me in, and hope. The cold can be so paralysing
but the sun is on her way. 

I only have to wait for you
to think of me as light

24/7 Love

Nick and I eloped in New York,
and the city restlessly slept, and the stars watched
quietly. We were not drunk. We were not high.
Our steps were quiet and measured, and death
seemed so very far away as we wandered through
the fluorescent wonderland of Manhattan. Nick and I
eloped in New York quite sober, quite content,

I stood before the mahogany desk
at two in the morning, in blue jeans
and ankle-high boots. This church was born
in a fast-food age, an era of immediacy.
Open twenty four hours, for God
never sleeps, just like the city.
My coffee-stained t-shirt, my dress,
and the rosy red of my cheeks
was the only bouquet I needed.

We married in simple, legal language,
confirming a simple, legal love. The dead poets
and the dead stars were disappointed in us.
I’ve never needed romance, I’ve never needed
moonlight. I am pale and freckled, with the blue eyes
of Alice’s dress, but I am not a storybook girl.

Nick and I eloped in New York:
without a ring, without flowers,
but with a swirled signature on a dotted line,
and with smiles in the heart
of our hearts.

you love the trigger more than you ever loved me

Once, I wrote of canyoning,
and you shivered in the wind, watching
the stars set over the reef. Colours swirled
and burst before your eyes, fish darted
like children, and still, you only wanted

I gave you parts of my flesh
like a mother gives her daughter bread.
I gave you words I never understood,
sediment drifting through my veins.
They blinded you to the world.
That was all you wanted, really,
to stop seeing the beauty before you.

You touched my smile, and
sterilised your tongue, scraping away
taste with a scalpel. You may be bleeding
but flesh still remembers. Poetry falls into you
like rocks into a canyon, and I told you before
that I would abseil down into your depths.
You, terrified, fled into the mountains,
past simple villagers you thought
would never understand.
Fool. They were more wise
than you.

Now, the desert is so dry
and you have touched unfeeling woman
with more than just your smile. That’s okay.
You’re being sent to the slaughter, soon, and
I do not begrudge you a last meal.

But give me back my words freely.
They are a part of me I need,
and I do not have the energy
to fall through you, the dark canyon,
to find them.

on bitter bitter patience

It has been so many years
since your chest has felt like anything other
than a cage for muted birds. You hold your bones
together with cellotape and staples, with the glue
of fumbled touches in the darkened bedroom
of a stranger’s house. The calloused hands
upon your cheeks feel so wrong and so right,
and all the while, God fills you with delight.

At home, you practice diamond gleaming smiles
in a cracked mirror. You are doomed to seven years
bad luck. Your stretched lips sting
and seem to flutter like a hologram,
but the world will see what it wants.
You flash your shining teeth to your parents,
all the while knowing that you are made
of coal. 

And inside, birdsong thrums through
your blood, reverberating through
the hollow spaces inside you.
Nothing seems to fill you
but sin, and it is joyful.

Just wait, you whisper
to the birds inside your lungs.
It’s this pressure inside my volcanic body
that will transform us into something

leaving you / empty spaces

Your kisses began
so gentle, like birdsong filling my chest.
I would caress your mouth with mine
and know that being full of you
was the very worst thing
for my heart.

There were days,
at the start, when to lay in the backyard
and stare at the clouds would calm me.
But only if you were cradled beside me.
I held you just barely, two fingers
glistening against yours,
two stars winking at one another
across the emptiness of the sky.

Just the feel of you within my grasp
was enough to still my racing, desperate pulse.

Even then I knew how dangerous you were.
A quiet kiss, a cinematic moment,
sent my throat into spasms.
I could never - would never -
with you.

I still crave your essence filling me
more than I need water, more than I need
sunlight. But you’ve moved on to other loves,
seducing other women’s lips. I gasp at night for you.
But matter over mind, my love:

my body rejoices at the empty space
beside me.

A letter to a once-girl I loved.

I laid my head in your lap
and thought I may call this love.
I could hear your blood
rushing through your limbs.
It was beautiful. 

Your heart was trapped beneath breasts
in those days, your curves a muscle memory you despised.
I could sketch out your hips on a page in seconds,
but you had spent your life wishing
for hard lines without ever knowing it.

Two weeks ago you changed your name.
I am training my tongue in this new language,
of pronouns I have never loved, but it stumbles.
The flutter of pain in your eyes reminds me 
of the butterflies I keep locked in my stomach.
I have not needed them since you.

You tell me your mother will not call you
the name you’ve had etched into your bones
since the day you were born, without ever knowing.
Names, she says, are immutable. 

“A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet.
My daughter, by any other sex,
would be my daughter.”

I look so closely at your bound ribs,
at the rosy pink cheeks you tried to carve into like apples. 
I have kissed your feminine lips, and loved you.

But now
with your plateau chest and your close cropped hair,
you are more beautiful
and more you
than ever.

how the world looks at midnight with aching feet and lonely hands

I wake up to stale lipstick smeared across white sheets.
I am becoming a stain on something pure,
taking something fresh & new,
and leaving an ugly mark
to remind the world
of me. 

I can feel the aches that have settled in my bones
quite contentedly, bringing their malaise,
their obnoxious children: loathing.
Inside of me is something
decaying, and I will not find it,
lest I pull myself

I never told you last night that I cannot sleep
for the spasms that wrack the body you have come
to worship. They’re shivers of fear and of loneliness,
of cups of tea while the world falls apart,
of cigarettes on the sidewalk
while your family
leaves you
for sun.

I am everything that deconstructs. I am analysis and contemplation;
I am the theory behind the art that takes away everything
you found beautiful to begin with.
No one will watch as I diminish,
finding lint on couches and 
photographs without
my broken

old men like fallen posts

a man with a scraggly beard and dead wife
calls himself The Widower

he smells of moth balls and sweat
and he carries his life on his back
like a turtle

The Widower wanders because The Widower wishes
that The Wife he had was still With Him

but instead he is a tortoise man,
a tortured man, and he screams in agony
at train stations

he plays piano on your leg at the busstop
with his scratchy fingernails and you’re much too polite
to protest

you let him cry on your shoulder at ten in the morning
and you wonder how to explain the stains
to your boss

you wish he’d be silent but the cat’s got your tongue
and you let him mourn for his youth

The Widower wails because The Widower wants
what The Widower will never have