"Our imagination flies — we are its shadow on the earth."
— Vladimir Nabokov
~*~
i did not see that it could
matter so much. not one,
where did her hands hold you close
as mine last night — not two,
did you lay her down with her head
by the window where my plaits had pressed —
but three.
i
wondered what the circumference
of each thigh was, the colour of each
eye.
six orbs swirled in mine, their
mouths parted red with mine, their
fingers squeeze your shoulder as mine would
their bodies lock limbs around yours :
we our thoughts are severed
with the cool gaze of the rose bushes
come morning
and i, my body embarrassed
to be seen new again, palely
untouched, shamed by innocence
— unfelt as i was as a child —
the bed that we slept in
my love it was debased
and it was meaningless.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
(04/02/2018)
YOU ARE READING
Have you seen the Lost Boys?
Poetryharking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
