Lines delicately traced,
like a sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec;
all colour & movement, sweeping angles
tangled into a lie more real than the truth:
who is that person now?
What do they dream about?
That the past is forever lost
is the only proof we have that it existed*,
but the City,
the City stays standing:
poisonous giant always reneging
on its promise to keep us safe.
Just as memories will disappear
so too will the city
& all those within it & all those yet to come.
Even the light will die in time
& nothing will remain of the elegant lines;
not yours or mine.
Our strange gift is to know this
& then try
to accept it.
* J.M. Coetzee
The city lights conspiring to hide
the cold shimmer of starlight from our eyes;
walks together: a flower & it’s thorns,
sharing our thoughts,
secrets, fears & feelings,
each the other’s mirror
using silk to remove any marks that
prevented us from seeing clearly &
the resulting electrostatic charge
binding us together.
All of this
is a gift,
& every poem I give you
is an attempt to make amends
for being no more than
I can still taste the memory of those cold
when all I ever wanted
was to stay with the warmth of your body.
Or the Summer evenings when
you would rise, like a feline, from the bed
to describe the most perfect lines,
just by stretching your limbs,
& how the sunlight would slip
from a halo to fingertips
brushing against your skin.