At the heights of a Surrey valley
is where I stand alone.
The clouds roll in with attempted suppression,
wuthering, as one may say.
Yet they succeed and I do not.

All this vacantness on the moors,
in turn: suffocation.
All this gale of violence and madness,
not a single shiver,
but a private, intense burning sensation.

Would it set fire to the moors, the libraries,
and the red curtain theatre?
Or would it melt the defendant themselves?
I wish for the former,
yet I am already melting.

I put my hand on the gnomon-less sundial,
and still I stand alone
drunk on the all-consuming emotions
inflicted by these brick walls
or rather the crowds of unpredictability within them.

hatred and anger are only
the absence of love
and can be diminished by
the abundance of love

I don't want babies.

These are Victorian days

I reckon I'd die.

and I would call you my Heathcliff,
but I am no Catherine.

You were a complex character
before I made my impact,
I cannot claim to have caused your
wounds, nor to have healed your heart,
But for the time we had,
I hope I brought you some small,
( however small)
amount of joy, or at least
rest,
from the wicked souls who tormented you
That now reside in a shadow behind your smile.

And yes, in a way I suppose I have the qualities of Catherine,
I too broke my own heart,
but at least you could recognise
that you too, played your part.