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.