Inescapable
Seeing you in all I read
Kisses on the wind

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Sunday morning

On Sunday morning the coffee always tastes different, as if infused with memories wafting towards me, mingling with the notes of lonesome country, filling my head with daydreams. Each drop reaching my lips the warmth of a thousand kisses which were and a infinite number which were never meant to be. My hands caress the cup as I pull myself into the corner and remember what it was like to hold you, to be held by you, while silken cascades of liquid across my tongue recall the smooth softness of your skin. The harsh lamplight’s glare scatters in the ripples, like city lights we never kissed beneath and settles to the glowing light of the same moon under which we found our peace for just a moment. Deeply breathing steamy air, I remember the smell of your hair the summer you made my body your home, and across the years your voice still whispers those words you will never say again.

Flicker

Manhattan memories
Fading in and out of side streets
Across the park
Together
Alone
The flicker of tail lights
As you drove away.

Nonsense food

Just like so many other things about you that didn’t make any sense, but made me smile deeply, ‘breakfast food for dinner’ is one I love. I just didn’t think you meant muesli.

The circle completes
Silence turns luminescent
All becomes nothing

Organised mind sought
Life’s innundation managed
Always you persist

Lunch in the park

Softly settling into gentle realisation,
Nothing more matters.

A moment shared lives eternal in itself;
Nothing more is needed.

Lost sonnets

I do not know
Where now it lies
Forgotten
For so long
Amongst decaying dust
Of memories
Perhaps some lonely stranger
Has loved it
As once we did
And verses
Which once you read aloud
Tingle on their lips
In memory of my skin
Which prickled
At your gentle touch
Under the trees of summer.

—

A couple of days ago I came across a book online which I should have on my bookshelves but, for some reason, I do not. It was given to me decades ago by somone who is now a dear friend but at one time was, or perhaps could have been, were it not for my own youthful stupidity, so much more.