Lost Lines

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

Eros & Philia

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
& more
is a gift,

& every poem I give you
is an attempt to make amends
for being no more than
                   an unremarkable,
undeserving
                   mammal.

I remember…

For S

I can still taste the memory of those cold
December mornings,
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.