Five Poems Spike Wrote about Buffy (and One that She Wrote about Him).

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I posted some fic earlier today, and now I’m back with poetry! Slightly moody poetry…

Title: Five Poems Spike Wrote about Buffy (and One that She Wrote about Him)
Author: Quinara
Rating: PG-13? Sex references and swearing.
Summary: Two sonnets, two lumps of free verse and 17 lines of hendecasyllablics; one from S5, two from S7, one from AtS S5 and one post-NFA. Plus something Buffy wrote in some sort of domestic futureverse!
Author’s Notes: Any bloody awfulness is intentional. Because I say so. :P

Warnings: None in particular.

Five Poems Spike Wrote about Buffy (and One that She Wrote about Him).

Spike takes up his pen for the first time in a while.

The Slayer walks in beauty like the night.
Except she doesn’t walk, so much as dance
Great rings around each git who takes the chance
To test his worth against her in a fight.
Yeah, right, she tells the night to fuck itself –
Will wear bright orange, pink and shiny gold;
Pop bubble-gum to make me feel I’m old
And cringe when Giles suggests an act of stealth.
But dark, I sometimes see that in her eyes;
It calls to me like a forgotten song.
Then I’m reminded, not without surprise,
That bloody Byron isn’t all that wrong:
She is this night, the blinding starry skies,
The light that I will stare at much too long.


If he writes them down his words can’t be used against him. They must be his.

There was a church,
I see a church,
Were you there with me?
Abandoned pews and dirt and burning flesh,
My scarred and binding, useless, yearning flesh.
I wanted you, but had no words
To say the nature of that want;
The flesh, we aren’t allowed that now,
We have to walk on nonchalant.
That wasn’t even all of it.
Don’t you see that wasn’t even all of it?
Your company, yes, company,
I need to see you, feel you,
I need believe the real you,
Not the imposter with her swishy hair.
Are you there?
I fear the silence like the dark.
(I know you’ll save me from the dark.)
But is there light that I can’t see?
Your help,
Whatever kind,
It must be yours,
I need your words,
Unwritten unlike mine,
Your voice recounting verse,
Psalm and chapter of my church;
That church, do you remember it?
How much of me is real?
You define what’s real.


If he can shape the thought completely then he can move on from it.

My memories of you are gold and red:
Those rugs, your body, coloured tapestry
Surrounding whitened flesh that’s cold and dead
And gracing sepulchres with majesty.
You’d lie demure, a blushing thorny rose,
Until your skin grew flushed with flaring fire;
Then stretching, arching, you, I did suppose,
At last requited fully my desire.
Those soaring vows we cried, our muscles tense,
I heard in them a lissom proof of bliss –
My soul had long been gone; at what expense
Could we be perjured? What of waste was this?
But now I know the sickly hand of shame,
The darker shades in which you saw the game.


He is shaking. Hendecasyllabics are the slowest things he can think of to calm himself down.

Far too long memory has been neglected.
Far too long were my ghostly hands without pen.
Now your face isn’t clear, it’s blurred and not sharp;
I don’t know every word I said or promised.
Both our hands when we clasped them caught a bright flame,
Red light licked at our knuckles kissing tightly;
Both your eyes, they were wet for me or, maybe,
For what we in our dreams had dreamt we could have.
When I think of the past, of you and your voice,
Will I hear what you said so strongly that day?
Those three words that were perfect, that ‘I love you’,
Those three words I rejected, stunned by my fear?
Or will I have forgotten our specifics?
Fail in my recollection – look back blankly?
I can’t sleep for the worry I have lost it,
Everything that before I found important.
Who are you, whom I love and want to be here?


Spike wonders.

Swish, squelch, crunch, thud –
Demon’s dead with sword and kick.
What now? you ask,
Your brightened face like my beginning.
How to respond?
In streets so damned as these?
In straits so ending?

Buffy’s Poem
She wants to make him feel as loved.


Spike is like
A slice of cake
Like chocolate cake
That’s sweet
But not too sweet
(Dawn didn’t make the frosting).

Spike was like
So totally evil
Except when he was not.

Spike will like
The poetry
You try
To write
Although it’s sucky
‘Cause he’s lucky.

I could have tried to cook.


Originally posted at