Every room
felt like a crime scene.
Our outlined
shapes in chalk on the bed
from those
nights when we half-bothered
to arrange
ourselves like lovers
and not two
friends with over-familiar bodies.
Some nights
the crease of your hip was unbearable,
the warm nut
of your nipple tedious.
Some nights
we cheated with sleep.
After years,
the attic opened and you pushed your head up
like some
rude violet, tipping boxes, searching for proof
that we had
been living in love for years. You called me
as soon as
you found it: a shabby album. On page number one
there we
were, wild-eyed and young,
our brown
limbs tangled on British sands in the years
when summer
still burned, shuddering
over Cornish
cream teas, towelled and matted with salt.
I remembered
your kiss: the spark of a cold wet flint.
Sepia haze,
me swollen like some female god
with my hair
streaming over your lap. There you are closed around me:
wrapping me
like a small bee. Your warm fingers
teased my
huge belly. We rolled names in our mouths
like sweet
berries, guessed the sex over bites of crisp apple.
We would
sing to the baban in Welsh.
Further
back, our crackled smiles from when we were drunk
and still
young, pale and freize-faced
through a
film-reel of teenage parties.
Grinning
in wood-panelled restaurants, glutting ourselves
on feasts we couldn’t afford. I was hot and restless
with my
hands, dropping my knife, stroking bottles
with painted
nails. I had to show you my bloodied nails
and later
set them clawing all along your spine
into the
small naked hours.
In years,
the meetings took over.
The other
girls glowed out of pictures.
