Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
     scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
     till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
     dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.

The smell of woodsmoke in your hair,
     dampened by the shower fog.
The subtle morning chorus,
     the hungover smell of ***,
the tangle of our ankles beneath the pillows.

Warm breath against the shell of your ear,
     your violet-veined eyelids fluttering.
Palms cupped full of melted gold,
     spattered ink on the pages of the book of life.
Reading Shelley on gum-dotted sidewalks,
     an oxford shoe through the lens of your binoculars.
Familiar fingers knotted into yours,
     blue bows tied around your clavicle.

Grass-stained shirt hems,
     your mother's scrawl inside your collar, faded.
Scuffed knees,
     not quite bleeding.
Too far away from home,
     swimming in your reflection in your watery cup of tea.
Ripped up notebooks,
     a writer's love ignited.
Rough wine on the banks of the canal,
     crying, laughing, tumbling still.

A dash of spluttered kisses
     come raining down on your neck.
Buried in your sandy hair,
     shining lips in the candlelight.
I don't speak your language,
     you barely speak mine,
*Ik wil jij.

Barefoot in fields of flowers,
     in the shadow of your watercolour mountains.
Holding the hands of birdmen,
     in the glow of your firefly killing jar.

Closing time.
     Cold marble steps, brisk evening air.
Small cappuccinos,
     hot chocolate with cream you didn't ask for.
The Canadian Embassy
     casting glittering lights across the fountain waters.
Faint indigo sky,
     laughing about the Renaissance,
falling asleep on the Bakerloo.