you standbehind a wallof silenceI sit hereand bleedwordsI don't knowwhich one of usis wiserbut I knowwhich one of usstill loves

getting over you is scheduled for once in every two months – pace yourself in tripping me over: I’ve gotten over you in January just past; mess me up again on the Ides of March.

sometimes in the afternoonsI see the moonhanging from invisible threadsin the sky it has your name carved on italways but there is no moon, and thereis no youthe eyes sometimes see what the heart wants

drawing outthe threads of tendernesswe tear into thishastily-woven tapestry of usturn magic into everyday abjectnessweave in aloofnessworldlinessawkwardnessun-tenderthoughtlessness

maybe I should apologisefor that time I kissed youso enthusiasticallyI thought we’d fall over;positively adorable, reallyif only I meant it –we could have madesomething of us

did you think I cared, really? – that time I held youand kissed you and kissed you again(and yes, again,of course)did you really think I cared?how could you?I barely saw youfor you.

sometimes when I enter a room I think that you have just left it – I can feel you almost a shimmering suggestion a slight pulsating glow of where you where and where you are not a scent perhaps, but then again – it follows me everywhere that scent that is you surely it cannot be? the clothes in ...

this month brought me you, heart-eater after the chill of December, January newness conjured up out of thin air, too suddenly you were there – a whirlwind, breath-stealer you brought poetry and laughter, in the month of love

again you have returned – a bruised leaf, not quite a flower but just as beautiful in certain lights – at these touch-points of return, I don’t know what you want from me – comfort, kindness, a soft-word-caress; you seek safety, solace – but there are times when even I have nothing to give

this is how I always know it’s you: the tiny birthmarks between your shoulder and heart and on the inside of your thigh; the sound of your blood, the rhythm of the slow pauses between your heartbeats; the scent of your hair, taste of your skin; and most of all, the signature of your smile.

1 when you kissed me on the street and said I tasted of strawberries 2 when we watched ‘Titanic’; and you cried, and got mad thinking I didn’t 3 when there were others and you and I were still ours, us, always.

you can’t help but wonder at the way he kisses – too tender, as if he isn’t certain he’s allowed, let alone desired – you catch your breath, fight for air; the night weighs heavy – his kisses are almost as light as the touch of his fingers (raindrops, sliding) – what a time to remember ‘the prophet’ – ...

there have been other 24sas there will be more 24s yet every 24 is of youfor you, always and forever only you -carved into my skin, burnedinto mybrain,you,24/2.

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