A summer’s day inside a dim nook
Hooks of sun cling to dusty light
A patter of feet, tentative and slight,
Whiskers tweak and ears prick
The smell of sweat and sunshine linger
Softly, upon the skin,
And in she is, this ball of jitters
Twitters pleasantly to the receptionist.
A sassy smile, a knowing nod
Cards and keys, paper and pins,
Exchanged and signed, too refined
Too cocky, this little whatsit
Struts and pouts, giggles with a smile
She bounces from room to room
Idle, but energised. She fumbles
Pushes and shoves, scrapes and knocks,
Opening Aladdin’s cave, glittering, glimmering.
A gem nestled in a stained chain
The nymph flaps and flutters, weaving silk
And spinning the dew drop wet web.
Freeze. It is time. Away, down the same lane
Out into the sun the bud bursts to bloom.
Into cobbled streets, stones laid out side by side
Like little tombs. Towards the smokey choke
Of people scattered like pins. Where is he?
There. Smaller then remembered, and from afar
Perhaps stocky and brutish, with eyes too close
Or a lips too thin. He is here. A cigarette dangling
Dangerously on a sulky mouth, but a flash lights
Those wide, wild eyes. She is here. Like two peas
Where one is slightly rounder, bigger, greener
Yet still two peas sheathed in a suitcase
Rattling roguishly with too much space.
A smile, a nod, an embrace. Small questions
Drip off wet lips as they stroll with eternity
Between them. Like fruit bats seeking succulent
Sweetness do they return to the cave, hungry
For the flesh of tender peach, plum, grape.
Hairs tingle upon her nape as she senses his eyes, only his
Watching her, judging her, feeling her.
The clinging scent a red rose dies, but tender
Buds of the little forget-me-not struggle up
Not much, no fuss, resolute.
Tension builds a sly glance and quick smile.
Suddenly he’s there, too close, too soon.
His eyes too intense and too remote.
A serpent’s tongue hisses over her lips
Who knew such creatures of fire and hate
Could kiss with Angel’s wings?
Feather light, gentle and soft
A taste of ash and crisp leaves
Cool, cold, lusciously fresh.
They fit gawkily together, pieces of the same puzzle
But different parts of the picture.
They have so little time, and yet tomorrow
Could be as far as infinity, somewhere
Painfully pleasant and burning cold, somewhere
There is no sound and every sound, somewhere
Hills are flat and roots bloom with petals. Somewhere
The body is mankind, and every soul the mind.
A pen is dipped into the ink pot, drawing evening
And the feeling of a letter without words.
There is so much confusion, promises unwritten,
Between them there is nothing, and everything
Imperfections craft these moments of perfection.
Potions of pastel pink and the emerald case
Of bubbling liquid gold taste and intoxicate.
Then, like the lights of heaven
Seeping through pinpricks of a dark duvet
A wall cracks and crumbles, a silver cloud
Melts into a pool of watery fire.
No traces of desire, there is only the pure white
Of something more than before.
Quite the opposite of bad, but not quite good
Fears of what would, should, could commence.
She is blissful, he is bemused.
Unacquainted with an emotional bruise,
Where sentiment seeps under the skin
In puddles of purple and blue, goodbye,
Adieu are now poetry to melt the heart,
And used to make the soul or tear it apart.
Love, another word mispronounced
Is not the volcanic heat that rips your veins,
The mind games, or sweetened names,
The emotional monologues or twenty four
Missed calls. It does not hit you with a hammer
Or choke you with tears, fears and years
Of longing yet not belonging.
It is more the gentle breeze which follows
A hurricane, the aftershock of a rocking world.
The certainty that the sun will rise or that
Waves will never cease to lap your feet.
It is the soft poke towards fire when you freeze
Yet the hand that holds you back from burning.
It is the turning of time in a ticking clock, it goes on
When shattered, cracked and clogged.
It is not consuming but filling, not compulsory yet willing
It is the delicate ash left after a flame
The sap that swells when a bough is maimed
So King of lust, Virgin of love, here is one simple suggestion;
Is love the logical answer to your question?
