À moi. L'histoire d'une de mes amours.*
He was light.
He was radiant,
     and he was rapt.
He was brilliant,
     and he was blithe.
He was sent,
     and he was sound.
He was bliss, he was my rapture;
     he was my God and my nirvana.

But he was grief.
He was woe,
     and he was worry.
He was mistake,
     and he was malaise.
He was anguish,
     and he was agony.
He was in my very flesh;
     the yellow pulsing tumour of wretched, blinded love.

inch-deep paper cuts,
sodden matches, dead roses,
mouldy coffee cups

drowning in tiny oceans.
schiele-esque nudes
     in german poetry books.
speaking in tongues.
visiting graves
     in two different territories.
ginger cats with moonstone eyes.
****** noses
     in street lamp-yellowed alleys.

stupid living boys
     and their hummingbird hearts.
stupid dead boys
     and their lingering stares.
supermarket polaroids,
     cold apartment poetry,
faded glassy eyes,
     ***** fingernails.

cracked porcelain cups, spilt forgotten tea,
     stale uneaten biscuits and the freckles of crumbs
on a matching hand-painted plate.