I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

...I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.

The distance between us is so small
Sometimes even skin to skin it is there.
So wide needing to be crossed
A gulf larger, the closer we are.
It is when our lips touch or brush
A distance opens I want to cross.
To finally be with you,
A distance there never to close.
It is the space called love.

The stars are far away
The room is very cold
I cling to your warmth
Your breast my comfort
I can sleep now knowing your love
Your smell and ******* guide

True love is
when you shed a tear and
still want him near.
True love is when he ignores you
and you still love him.
True love is where he loves another girl
but you still smile
and say "I'm happy for you."
True love is where you love him
even though all you do is
cry...
and cry...

Love isn't...
forever like they say
Love isn't...
something that never fades away

Love isn't...
all the lies and the deceit
Love isn't...
just what goes on between the sheets

Love isn't...
where you expect that it will be
Love isn't...
something new to you or me

Love isn't...
dependent on being rich or being poor
Love isn't...
something I remember anymore

Love isn't...
insecurity and doubt
Love isn't...
something I want to be without

Love isn't...
always happiness and laughter
Love isn't...
sadly, happy ever after.

A myriad
of subtle stuff
a deep and long sigh
a strangely
well chosen tune
considering his history
the right wine
(full bloodied)
in the right light
(half)
with the right aroma
(lavender and ocean)
And view
(a sunset)
With sounds and sights
(gulls and grasses)
and the touch of
thick well worn cotton
culminating in a memory
I keep close