Mornings Like These

It’s mornings like these that remind me how to think with clarity.

There’s no sound, so no intrusiveness

No movement, so no distraction, 

Just breath and thought.
Mornings like these

Scare me a little, 

They help me to remember how much of myself I’ve let go. 

How much I’ve changed and rearranged. 

Some good. 

Some bad. 

But they scare me the most because 

Upon asking myself the question, 

“What do we do now? ”

There’s seldom a response. 

The silence envelopes even my will 

And there is naught left. 
Mornings like these 

Are littered with regret and angst

All the sins I knew and know 

Come to sit with me in the silence

We watch the sky together 
Mornings like these

Tend to go on forever; 

If uninterrupted, 

But soon the sun will bring redemption

Maybe i’ll take it today…


… I should take it today.
C. Jones. 2017


Henry’s Skin

Henry’s skin makes my mouth water;

You know, the memory of playing with the looseness of granny’s arm 

Or rolling the wrinkled part of her elbow between index and middle fingers. 

Like that. 

Maybe I was the only one who sucked my thumb in comfort as my nimble little fingers explored the tucks and folds behind her knees

My head on her lap, rocking gently.. 

And though henry’s skin is smooth and new.. Taught and young…

Touching him reminds me so fondly of her. 

I guess it’s the intimacy of it all. 

The comfort that comes from smelling the skin of someone you love.

The closeness

I guess. 

Henry Sleeps Pt 2

He elbows me in the head.


I’m not impressed.

I move lower into the sheets

Pulling my pillow down with me

He bums me in the back

Sigh, I roll over more awake.

The light from his laptop is the sun

The projector is still on

It’s raining

A train goes by

Henry mumbles something in his sleep.

Then snores.

Sigh,  I roll again.

He rolls too; taking 2/3 of the covers with him.

I lie on my back slowly closing my eyes and tugging to reclaim my rightful share of the sheets. 

My first alarm of 5 goes off.

I smother myself with my pillow and mumble into it, “What is this life?” 

Henry’s Chest

He has a strange depression where his heart should be.

His ribs form a sunken case around his life.

Almost as a testimony to his survival; it says :-

“I’ve been bent and broken, and maybe I’ve healed funny.. But I’m still here. I can still protect you.”

What manner of man is he?

With sunken chest, yet a heart that races on..

And how his heart races

It runs to its own Spotify playlist.

I could listen for hours as it changes tune.

I often imagine a 3 inch version of myself curling up in the nest on his chest, and falling into peaceful sleep. Lulled by his disorderly pulse.

Henry’s chest is an anomaly

He’s weird.

But good weird.

Henry’s OCD

Disclaimer:- It’s sad that I feel I even have to make a disclaimer before I write about the subject of OCD as some reading may find the following piece offensive in some way or another. But my writing is only about my specific relationship and doesn’t aim to mock or belittle anyone who suffers from OCD. So take the piece with a pinch of salt.

Please and thanks.

The Poet

The park bench is warm and I’m just getting comfortable as my legs weave between his. 

Henry untangles himself and motions for us to leave, 

He’s tried all the park’s exercise equipment

Nothing else holds his interest. 

I stand to leave with him and start to happily chat away about something or other. 

I stop as I notice he’s not there, spinning around to find he’s gone back to the bench to sit and stand again. 

So I go back to sit and stand too. 

And then we set off. 

Henry’s OCD is random. 

But it happens with little things, like getting up from benches

Or walking through doorways 

Or checking door knobs

And each time I notice I do the same as he does. 

At first he thought I was just taking the piss. 

– and I was-

But it was with the intention that he wasn’t alone, and I wanted him to see what I saw. 

At random moments I’d redo an action I’d done to make a point. 

And he smile at me and shake his head. 

He knows I love him, and we’re working to break the habits..

But until then, 

If he turns to touch a doorknob 50 million times,  

So will I. 

Henry’s Eyes

Henry stares at things and thinks. 

What goes on in that head?

Then he turns his attention to me and not before long, he smiles. 

And I kind of melt into the ground a little whilst simultaneously bubbling in my cheeks.

It’s an odd sensation.

His eyes are infinite.

Dark Blue, light blue, grey,

It all depends on his mood. 

I read somewhere once that the pupils dilate when you look at someone you love 

Henry’s pupils are large black black holes in quiet blue space when he looks at me 

A constant irony of chaos in the midst of calm. 

I wonder if he knows just how his gaze affects the slight of heart.. 

Well, I guess if he never knew before 

He knows now. 

Henry’s Away

When Henry’s away and I’m on my own it feels like a weight comes to cuddle me.

An unwelcome sadness settles in to keep me company.

And I know I shouldn’t feel this way 

And space is good

And we are our own people in our own worlds

But he’s rapidly become a large part of mine.

And when he’s away I carry on, just a little less alive.

Maybe it’s unhealthy,

It probably is unhealthy. 

Maybe we need to spend more time apart till I’m comfortable with this distance.
I dunno

But I’ll continue to miss him when he’s not around.

And I pray the day doesn’t come when I no longer do. 

Henry Panicks

Henry’s lost his phone


Watching him scurry and scrummage is a little funny.

But I dare not laugh

We scurry and scrummage together

He pauses to give up

I give up too,

He pulls me back to bed and tells me stories of the night before,

My mind races strategically searching for all the possible places it could be,

He jumps up and calls the uber driver,

His eyes light up

Listening in expectation, 

His face drops,

No joy,

Back to bed,

More funny stories,

Lol I’m finding it hard to understand exactly how he’s panicking and not at the same time. 

He berates himself for being forgetful

And I correct each name he calls himself to its political counter part

He stops to peak and smile at me from under the arm covering his face
His panic is over..

My job’s done.

Maybe we’ll find the phone, or maybe we won’t.

Either way.. He’ll be fine. 

Henry Eats

He tastes while he cooks,

Pokes his fingers in things,

Makes salads with his hands

Feeling up vegetables


He’s a blur of clangs and smells in the kitchen and then a breathing pile of washing up.


He arranges the plates for royalty…always.. He’s very particular.


Then he sits, only to stand again

Something he’s forgotten, something crucially unnecessary,


He sits again.


Henry reminds me of a meerkat when he eats

Head near the plate ,

Quickly and alert,

Then raised to survey his surroundings

Eyes in search of what more he can devour


Other times he’s a puppy,

When I bring food or buy something new,

He’s curious beyond caution

He always wants to try it.

But I’m not always willing to share.

He’s always willing to share


Most days he’s a toddler

Nothing sweet lasts more than 48hrs if left  in his possession

If he knows it’s there, he has to have it

There is no waiting or patience

Only gratification


Henry is always hungry

Henry is a hoover.

Henry Sleeps

He’s either a fetus or a dead man, when he sleeps

Either a ball or a bat

We’re the number 10 or a V

Never 11

I wish we were 11

Lately I’ve been thinking about us becoming 69 so I can see dark seemlessly

Because being 00 or a V isn’t up for debate,


But then he’ll roll over and hug me.

Or nuzzle me with his nose.

And I can’t help but sigh and smile

Henry sleeps like a 3yr old.

But he’s My 3yr old.