I remember
you coming around to my house
on your motorbike,
with a kitten.

You were an image
of yourself:
nineteen, a canvas sketched in,
waiting for bold strokes
from a palette as vibrant as fireworks.

And of course
you were shortlived like a rocket,
lighting up our upturned faces as you expired,
leaving us as empty
as a milkbottle, earthbound.

I walk down to the quayside,
past the Pure Gym fitness centre's
plate glass window.
There is a phalanx of treadmills
facing the glass,
populated by women
running nowhere,
an image of futility,
trapped like flies at a window,
determined and doomed.

The fitness centre looks out
at the huge boats
that work North Sea
between the oil fields and the fishing grounds:

The Olympic Commander,
Normand Aurora,
Skandi Caledonia,
Helliar.

On the high decks,
men in yellow oilskins
lean over the ship rail
and watch the women run.

For a moment I stand
between them, the earnest women,
the wistful men,
feeling for both but belonging with neither.

The sun is low in the sky,
and there's an Arctic bite
to the wind.
I pull up my collar,
and hurry into veins
of the granite city.

The laptop heats my thighs
as I pursue your imprint.
Google throws up 16,300,000 results in 0.12 seconds.
Facebook delivers a hoard of possible yous.

You are an elusive ghost
in a city of doppelgangers,
always just disappearing
around the corner.

Each click is like
a tap on the shoulder in a crowded street:
the face revealed is never yours.  But there
you go again, breezing past
in the opposite direction.

I am Breathless: I am
The Man Who Loved Women.

I give up: the Diana Wright who is a **** star
is not you, but is quite distracting.
And I can't type poetry with one hand.