Here's a little something,
I'm not sure it's poetry; maybe prose.
My day was going well, knocked-off early, travelled home.
With the morning's mail, my new bank cards, as expected.
But not quite - the name - so wrong.
There was my title, 'Miss', but with my old boy-name, in full.
I was stunned and distressed.  Upset and angry in equal measure.
It had seemed all so simple at the bank last week, and,
now. this. *******. ****.
I went straight down, on the Victoria line, steaming,
holding back hot tears, and sunglasses well needed.
An hour later and I was out in the street again.
Looking around still a bit stunned.
Lots of promises and a sort of disappointment in myself
that I didn't explode as much as I had expected.
It might have been a kind of therapy perhaps?
Actually I needed a different sort - a stiff drink.
Old reaction. Victoria is fine for that, innit?
A wine and time to sort out the ****** mess I am.
In the bar I search for one calming thought, something to put me in a better mood.
I owe myself more than this furious self-pity, for Christ's sake.
I know I can do it.  I'm too subjective, but I can use this weakness too.
And here it is. You and me.
Our time together at the weekend.  So simple.
A fresh, vivid memory not yet dimmed by the passing of more mundane things.
Being in your arms, looking into your blue eyes, I the object of your passion.
A bubble universe of you and me that will be for always.
It's a special memory sealed just like a bug in amber.
Forever in space and time aloof and impervious to the world's crap.
Showered by your hot kisses, I became a goddess for a night.
I unlocked your spirit too; you shone and took my breath.
We were locked so close.  Vibrating with mutual energy.
I glowing, you gasping and drained but happy, both dizzy.
How can this be?  We don't deserve this.  This is 'love'.
Actual, ******, romantic, love. The stuff teenagers dream about.
I worry that I'm not really supposed to have this.
But I know a good thing when I see it my love.
So like I said, I'm subjective, impressionistic sometimes.
It was a simple trick to switch the ****** thoughts for another
that was so, so much sweeter....