Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Souvenirs D'été

She's my summer girl, with
pools of green gently pushing at
blue, pulling me into their depths.
Lips so gentle and sweet,
with kisses from the north 
warming my cheek
and making me hold to the day.

Fingers and hands, smooth but brittle -
Shyly intertwining with mine as I build
these futile homes for us;
from her flesh come the walls;
my hands are simply a vessel for her being.
They won't last the night, these homes.
Her mood swings see to that.
Foreseeable unpredictability
trade my labours for a clean slate.

Morning will come again, back to the start.
She won't remember me - she'll be her own.
Every evening, I'll hold her close
But she'll never last the night.

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