Lock the door. In the dark journey of our night
two childhoods stand in the corner of the bedroom
watching the way we take each other to bits
to stare at our
heart. I hear a story
told in sleep in a lost
accent. You know the
truth.
Undress.
A suitcase crammed with
secrets
bursts in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed.
Dress again. Undress. You have me like a
drawing,
erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your
tongue.
The name of a country written in red on my palm,
unreadable. I tell myself where I
live now,
but you move in close till I shake, homeless,
further than that. A coin falls from the bedside table,
spinning its heads and tails. How the hell
can I win. How can I lose. Tell me
again.
Love won't give
in. It makes a
hired room tremble
with the pity of
bells, a cigarette smoke itself
next to a full glass of wine, time ache
into space, space, wants no more talk. Now
it has me where I want me, now you, you
do.
Put out the
light. Years stand
outside on
the street
looking up to an open window, black as our mouth
which utters its tuneless song. The ghosts of ourselves,
behind and before us, throng in a mirror, blind,
laughing and weeping. They know who we
are.
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