You reach out to me
When you have nobody around you
You look at me like I was more galaxy than just a girl
Once you find your beloved ones
I become useless
And You call it love!
Well, I call it hell

Shaking hands
After all this time
It ended as simple as that

Like strangers
Passing through the same streets
Eating from the same restaurant
Talking to each other
But not the way they used to talk
No life no heat no burning hearts

Cold nights
There is a fire burning
But non of them were warm enough

Everything was dead
But they wanted it after all
They weren't happy
but they stayed together

Goodbye
That's the only word they both couldn't say

But it ended
With a shake of hands

Gift to me gifts, sure! not your present pleas
-Ne'er take me for the motley foolish things.
If truly ****- poor posture deadened Grief,
(Where late thee adored thee, got thee by the cruelest means.)


Wish duly this, you're not sure, pressing needs
-There may be morphine by the tulip leaves.
It's to me this: pure, hot, for less than these.
Share, make me more; free not the ghoulish wings.

Which doobie hits? Forgot your lesson, Steve?
Swear they need Morning Time, it's the newest tease.
This truly is, more, (not for questioning.)
Where maybe pure themes rhyme with the truest ease.

I've never been able to write
Well about you
Because before any words even begin to form,
I've already drifted,
Beginning to dream about you.
Your smell;
Eyes;
Nose;
Laugh;
Smile - your downright perfect smile,
And as my mind wanders and
My heart goes outright supernova,
I haven't even the time to pick up a pen.

Passing ransacked umbrella stands,
grasping newspaper with their hands.
Holding shelter above their heads;
sloshing through tar riverbeds.

Hailing taxis from the pale;
the diesel saviours from the hail.
Wading through the flowing street,
committed to their client meet.

London converted to a wet-room,
The Shard engulfed by humid gloom.
Meetings start with sweaty handshakes;
small talk steams as some run late.

Returning home to tiny flats,
they open up the door out back,
to sit on decks and regroup,
but the garden slugs have staged a coup.

London mourns suede shoes:
ten thousand pairs lost in June.
Today the weather won again,
we must prepare for war,  good men!

But sleep well, beloved city,
for tomorrow will take pity;
the weather programme on TV,
said, “Mostly sunny, highs of twenty-three.”

To the keeper of the city's big gate,
Gives an encouraging smile even when I'm late,
I'm looking forward and around in the traffic, the lane,
Trying to mask my disappointment, of missing you again.

For another face is at the window, surrounded by Blue,
And the next day and the next day after that times two,.
I've almost given up this pact,
Gave up on searching, handed my last and just laid back.

This time I got out early,
Cruising up, mind else where, just 7:30,
Can scarcely believe my eyes,
But there you are, I’m hypnotized.

Reaching out, I'm devoid of what to say or think,
Our time is up in only a blink,
And my dry lips fumble, from ogling, long enough to say,
Sounded something like, “enjoy the rest of today”!.

But if I'm lucky you reward me with another "Casa Blanca" smile,
The kind frozen in time and space of my mind for a while,
As I can only lean and gaze,
Finally rolling away bewildered and dazed.

To nibble on that morsel of memory tucking away what remains,
In the farthest reaches of my over ecstatic brain,
“We’ll always have Paris” I silently strain with refrain,
Until tomorrow when I look for you again.