The warp of time,
a memory so refined
and pigmented
that it sits naked
and parboiled;
cradled in your mind.
My baby, you cry
‘oh, what is this division
that has cast us so apart?’
Time. Time and tremors
and the absence of lusture
in our lives.
I kiss the scars of our past.
The heady punch of whiskey,
and the overspill
from your father’s ice machine.
I remember it well.
And, my friend;
the cigarettes in the park,
the first time we split
and cut school together.
I remember it well.
Sat cross-legged
in the supermarket aisles
or else
mistaken for lovers
by the strangers on the streets.
Half-right and half-witted
we fell into the role
with a bumbling
grace. Bless yourself
with the compliments
you know I have for you.
Remember them well
whilst I kiss the scars of our past.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
The warp of time,
a memory so refined
and pigmented
that it sits naked
and parboiled;
cradled in your mind.
My baby, you cry
‘oh, what is this division
that has cast us so apart?’
Time. Time and tremors
and the absence of lusture
in our lives.
I kiss the scars of our past.
The heady punch of whiskey,
and the overspill
from your father’s ice machine.
I remember it well.
And, my friend;
the cigarettes in the park,
the first time we split
and cut school together.
I remember it well.
Sat cross-legged
in the supermarket aisles
or else
mistaken for lovers
by the strangers on the streets.
Half-right and half-witted
we fell into the role
with a bumbling
grace. Bless yourself
with the compliments
you know I have for you.
Remember them well
whilst I kiss the scars of our past.
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