Attic

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.