Heart eats a mattress, digging for a spark.
It’s a shovel built inside boys
who are writing songs about the girls they break all the time.
My bag is full of homecoming-windows, jingles before the train.
The water was bubble-thick, my brain said milk. Before here, I was running a magnet
through a bath of iron shavings, a puddle bent into love.
Pushing a RomCom into a DVD drive teaches a TV to love.
The microwave is church for metal being more than a spark.
I have alloyed the inside of a nest, lifted it from the tree with a magnet.
The birds will not know a home to come to, blame the boys
with their morning-shot song, punctuated by a leaving train,
holding men hauling house-guts hoping they make back time.
Mum tells me two years is a long time
to lose. I slept through all my burling in love,
wrecked by the push downs on the earth until I can train
my heart to follow more than a spark,
so I’m not written about as one of the frozen boys,
the ones obsessed with becoming a flesh magnet.
I don’t know enough about gravity. I carry it’s reject magnet.
They put it in your chest to keep it in time.
You will show the river-scar in your breast to boys.
Their hands, fresh in grab, hope to earn your love,
because they’re amputated, thinking rubber. You push them back with a spark,
know that on a platform, it’s tempting to outrun the electric of a train.
He’s talking about his sound on a train.
I’m trying to be a listener, hands clutching a paper magnet.
The couple opposite rub the Standard pages to make a spark,
the flames are the articles who forgot time,
a section of anons who thought they saw love
in a face in the blast-through landscape. Tired boys.
You grow with the damage, the lightning skin of boys.
How sorry you are, carrying a train
into a person you wanted to love
for longer than their body, from their toes to their skull-magnet,
the mind that chooses time
before static, before dampening a storm into a spark.
I wanted to be more than the boys, a hand-magnet,
to train my heart into a steel-woollen nest, take the come-go of homebirds and time,
bury what the mattress teaches love, breathe further than the spark.
Syllable Syndrome 
This is beautiful!