This slight whisper of a tune echoed,
a manuscript that plays the notes of us
in recollected chords across relaxed arms.
A music disuades, the bed is almost settled,
and I’m at the middle-eight, a night musician
sitting on covers with a lump in my throat,
feet smoothing the invasion of crumbs,
trying to listen for an understanding;
to peer out of the window and imagine you.
So wistful the catch of a moon in your hands,
an opening quench of memories in the darkness
that feeds freshness in life’s deficiency. Maybe
a tonic that lives in my warmimg heart’s larder.
Other food I know will bring me as close to you,
but this is a squeezed drink of my circled self.
A mixture of confidences in told truths, jars
of smiles and humour, spiced reality reaching out
that rings changes stored in glassy containers,
boy-ish laughs that wipe away the years
and a child is all that remains
in the connection before the thought is sent,
known long after the seals have been broken wax.
Beside the window in the silence of the dawn
that reaches a self, the hours become past
knowing that the day will still burn as usual,
the pressure will be bearable to the clock’s end,
for it always has been an adventure sousse,
as sure as I can sense your embrace tonight
and in uneven phases of tomorrow.
*sousse is German for “dear one”.