Looking into your pale eyes
I seem to see shadows,
phantoms of your history,
a history written in a language
I cannot understand.

Looking into your liquid eyes
I seem to see to the depths
of an ocean
into which I could sink
and never come up again.

Looking into your magical eyes
I seem to see a future
where things are changed,
where life as we know it now
would not even be history.

Your ***** feminine pose,
the proud look in your dark eyes,
your legs strong as columns,
your statue enchants me.
The curves of your full firm *******,
your hips, your thighs,
the sheer femaleness of your belly,
speak to me so much
of the woman you are.

But a statue is fixed,
forever beautiful, but unmoving.
It does not breathe, has no voice.
Its surface, smooth as your skin,
does not have your softness.
Blood flows through your veins ,
your flesh is warm,
but your statue is cool to my touch.

All it can do is remind me of you,
and whilst that reminder gives me pleasure,
it saddens me that the statue is not you.
All I have of you is in my memories,
in my imagination,
and though I rejoice in those thoughts,
my joy is tempered all the time
by one unchangeable fact.

You are not there.

I am not familiar with your toothbrush,
not acquainted with it,
have no experience of it,
am unaware even of its colour.

I know that a toothbrush is an inanimate object.
It cannot feel,
cannot enjoy the closeness,
as it massages every surface of your teeth,
sliding in and out between your lips,
caressing your tongue, moving across
the inside of your cheeks.
It takes no pride
in performing its morning duty for you,
no pleasure in your gratitude
for the freshness it gives you.

It would be ridiculous,
surely,
to be envious of that lifeless,
insensate,
ultimately disposable
thing.
And yet ….

…. and yet I cannot totally eliminate
the feeling
as I imagine your toothbrush
in its daily moment
of intimacy
with you.

In my childhood trees were green,
sky was blue, the sun shone gold.
Snow fell in winter thick and cold
as if the summer had never been,
and there was nothing in between.
But now I'm old, sky's always grey,
no colour left to light my day,
winter and summer all the same,
and Loneliness my middle name.
Why did you have to go away?

You young girls whose faces
if I try hard alone of a night
I can recall
though your names
are more difficult
exist so to speak
in the parallel universe of my mind
and I
as I once was
or as you would have liked me to be
perhaps live on in yours
but as we are now
there is no crossing those frontiers
and even if the possibility should arise
in that other world
the people we have become
would be strangers.