It used to be

ecstatic:

 

a feast of flesh

served upon

 

a plate of love.

 

It used to be

sensuality’s serendipity,

 

nor does my memory

exaggerate the way

 

I found you beautiful.

 

That look that lingered

on your face,

 

the race of heartbeats,

touch of skin on skin

 

electrified my life

& left my pulses

 

whirring.

 

But now it’s more like

shaking hands:

 

although, still we slot

cracks & crevices

 

we forgot, fit cleverly

together.

 

Yes, now it’s more

what love is not

 

& where we’ve been,

between,

 

has left an imprint

we can’t blot, now love

 

has run,

 

at last the muse

has left us.

 

I tangled with

the long grass

 

arms cut red:

criss cross

 

stripes of

holding life.

 

My garden is

a wild thing

 

escaping into

luxury,

 

of iris, rose  &

lemon tree.

 

I tangle in

the long grass

 

like lovers arms

it wrestles

 

a caress,  &

sunrise leaves

 

an orange glow.

I move from east

 

to west,  lavender

raises musky head

 

reborn in summer’s

splendour.

 

 

 

You hold me

like a book:

 

turning pages

searching image

 

hoping for a glance

I can’t reveal.

 

The clock ticks on

it’s midnight now

 

we talk on superhighway

peeling skin for bone,

 

my pages thin

& fragile

 

crushed to dust

by other loves.

 

You’re searching

for a meaning

 

the hollow of your

heart bleeds desire

 

& I fly out of print

confounded

 

by the satire

sold as love.

 

You hold me

like a book

 

I lean to catalogue

the moment.

 

Chapter heading

full stop.

 

End of line

hidden in your

 

beautiful

black eyes.