All these years and I don’t think you would
Remember my name.
You struggled with it;
It didn’t fit quite right on your tongue,
A tongue accustomed to the ghost of another language.
But to me, of course,
Every word you spoke
Was gospel.
You’ve done something wicked to me.
No man may take my hand
Without a silent comparison made.
You were my very own Aengus,
And none may live up to that.

I shouldn’t still remember the curve of your waist.
I shouldn’t still long to hear my name on your lips
Again.
I shouldn’t still long to say yours
In the dead of night
When I can recognise by the rise and fall of your chest
That you aren’t yet asleep.

I shouldn’t still be stuck in this reverie.
But I am.
Of course I am.