I don’t want to share you with any arm, lip, shoulder, breath or caress,
God, I don’t want the wind in your curls without my say so.
I want to tuck in my shirt,
get that job in London, invest in return tickets to Amsterdam or
meet in European cities like 60’s outlaws,
steal away to Venice like Corsican smugglers,
build weekend fortresses in Budapest,
slumber on sleeper trains to St Petersburg,
piss off the Mafia, seek refuge in the Vatican,
take a pilgrimage to Eke and Nazareth…
That day on the beach, you were the dawn
the walk to the lighthouse a waltz
the sands beneath us – clouds.
Before, that thing in my chest beat like monsoons
as my drenched palms sought yours, but
that day on the beach, it was as steady as the tides lapped up in seashells
and when your thumb traced my fingers
it was like the divine touch turning dust to living clay.
I want to be up at 3.43am on Thursday nights to hear your drunk thoughts.
I told a stranger at a posh bar you were the love of my life
and she said I should make it work.
I don’t know how these things work.