One postcard lovesong

Your name slides off my tongue

smoothly, sleekly

like velvet curtains

draping the dark stage

we stepped down from,

but I don’t recall the

sound of your name, I say.

It doesn’t stir up

any mornings of thickened

spring you speak of.

A mystery colours you

orange,

like a sphinx,

and you claim with tired smiles

that I have once

held onto you with

eagle claws,

breathing down

the scent of pressed roses

on new purple bruises,

you say, that I have often

attempted to fill up the

clear spaces of your eyes

with bubbled streams

of fantasies.

With my mind

like a slate wiped clean,

let us speculate

upon the past

once more,

and I imagine

your lips wet with fresh

summer rain, I imagine

clasped fingers

draining the little

remaining warmth of

our numb bodies,

our shadows lit with

fires from rumbling thunders

across blind lanes,

I imagine your whispers

shivering against my sleeve

with all its spilled tea stains,

careless kisses

lining the fringe of the

lack within.

Let us then slip into

our fifteen year old selves

stealing into balmy rooms

with my prison songs

and your guitar

making music and love

in the same rushed fervent breath,

you say.

You allow me to touch

this face I cannot place

until you ask about my long absence

and my make-believe

adolescent love

bleeds.

I blindfold your ready eyes

and escape through the window-

the city with its

dust trailing jaws

comes alive to take me in.