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October 15, 2016


You looked like Carson McCullers.
And you wrote.
And you smoked.
And you struggled with drink.
You were a suicide, denied.
An ugly triumph.
I was never able to reconcile.
Admiring your need for annihilation.
And then finding.
You were the only thing that made life worthwhile.

You played the piano and spoke a little French.
But I was better read.
You were beautiful on the roll of a die.
I was handsome in the conventional sense.
But when you smoked a cigarette.
Laying, in my cheapest shirt.
Your small, pert breasts.
Barely showing in the meagre light.
I was a deaf-mute.
A strip of flesh.
An empty Samhain night.

We walked in Regent’s Park.
Through razor, biting air.
And your golden hair mingled with your ochre scarf.
With the leaves on the ground.
Some Salvation Army band.
Played Christmas carols for the glorious poor.
And as it got dark.
And my heart ran like meltwater.
Trembled like Joan of Arc.
You squeezed my arm.
And we wandered towards the Arch.

We stopped at a little cafe.
On the way back to your flat.
Idling in the cold, black night.
Condensation wrapped the window.
Men and women outside.
Were watercolour smears.
Red and black lights.
Hurrying home to fabrications.
Borrowed dreams and novel life.
You stretched your finger to write on the glass.
But it was all an affectation.
A selfish, illusionary act.
I held your hand.
And begged you.
You said my name.
And I said hers back.


From → Poetry

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