It was such
xxxxxa short-lived heaven.
Your concrete leaden leather couch.
Your weight. Spat out
like gristle, I’m disappointingly similar
to all I used to be –
duct tape across the cracks
where you might actually catch a glimpse.
With you I could be heavy.
I miss the plunging weighted depths.
I yearn against all better judgement
to return there. The disbelief
we suspended. Illuminated
by the box of light
above your TV, changing colour
xxxxxlike my aura
xxxxxxxxxxwhen you entered me
xxxxxxxxxxwhen you insisted:
A wedding took place by your window.
We watched, shirtless and sweaty
pot-bellied outsiders recoiling
from a summer that shone light
on all the reasons why
white picket fences
work better for those who live above ground.
The grief is in the details.
Your index finger
treating tobacco filaments
like dust a servant didn’t clean.
Smoke without means of escape.
We were adolescents, our pleasure
made greater by its built-in
obsolescence, until the pressure
xxxxxgot to you first –
a clean slate like your coffee table
untainted now by girlish
to reflect a single glass
half empty with Coke Zero –
a metaphor I can’t take credit for;