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I’m throwing up butterflies

My hands are shaking

Can he see the beads of sweat

emerging from my forehead?
My stomach is doing summersaults

My head is falling down the stairs

My lips are trembling out of control

Can he see how much I care?
The ground is floating away from me

My knees are feeling weak

I’m trying to calm down now

Is this no time to speak?
We’re moving in closer

Things aren’t feeling real

The world is spinning around us

Does he feel what I feel?

Salad Cream

Pour-able sunshine

Silky, sickly

How can this be the taste of summer?
I’ve spent many a year sweating in the burning heat with out this ghastly concoction in my mouth
If this was sunshine a market could be made,

torches would be redundant

children would have this instead of a lamp by their bed in the dark
And finally on the jar are the words ‘once open consume within 8 weeks’

Is this the true duration of summer?
by Sara Sivan-Whitehouse