if you are tormented by dreams of me(call them nightmares if you will), how is that my fault?

you and I:we laugh a little much,a little too earlysomeone’s going to have to cry:you or I?

after so longstill meanderingclimbing stars andnavigating the Milky WayI sometimes spy youplaying hopscotchacross my sky

is it not enough that I know the shape of your smile against my skin?must I know everything?

who am I kidding?I am not forgettingI am only learning to let go

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

no, I will notleave you;not yetyou are stilltoo lovelyto leave

when shadows gatherand we watch forfireflies,I watch your face andstill wonder at thesight

when my Grandfather – the Anglophile – was alive,I learned to eat (confidently)with cutleryand when my Mother – the Anglophobe – finally arrived,I learned to eat (awkwardly)with my fingersbut with you – what were you?– I learnt to carve (myself);not even all 10 fingerscould close the wounds

not being a loverdoesn’t mean youmust be a strangeryou don’t need to drive that knifethrough my gut

once we wantedtattoos togethersomething about pain and pleasuretell me, will you comeget one with me now?something about Christmas weathermakes me want toforget foreversall I want is for us to get inked now

you say you want me towrite you poetryI want to write on youwith my fingershave my words imprintedforever on your skinand tattooed behind your eyesclaiming ownership of your hearttell me if you still wantpoetry from me

I see luminescencebehind that look in your eyesin that lost momentbetween whisperand sighwhere I lose you and find youagain — it’s a pretty wordfor a coldsight

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

you give me heart-leaves – not flowers, no bouquets;and I love every offering

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.

I serve your food and bring it to you,spoon in hand, but you say:feed me with your fingerssurprised by your insistence, I hesitateand push for spoon, but you say:feed me with your fingersI say it makes no difference, but you say:food tastes better when youfeed me with your fingersputting the spoon awayI surrender fingersand heartagain

sometimesI rememberthe strong and strange beauty of your wristsalways sunburnt, always beautifuland the memoryfinds me clenching my teeth to fight the waves of desire that overwhelm mehow can a man have wrists so beautiful?I love their shape and width and shades and hollowsI even love howyour watch sitsstrange, the picturesthat stay in my mindthe sun-kissed scentand silky solidnesshard-softness and ...

you kiss ever so softly;like the drawing ofsilk across the skin,or the softest touchof butterfly wings.

and when you say you don’t know why you love mearrogance prevents me from saying anything more thanI see no reason why you shouldn’t