Monday, 8 November 2010


Monday 8th November 2010, A. Palmer

I still remember the first series of predictive conversation:
smiling as I do, but the ones at the time are matchless.
(You employed brackets when you weren’t supposed to),
(I liked you so I did too).

First, something warm would rush its walls
as (far from) innocence gave way to play,
and one X became two, then three, then fourteen once
                  (I counted)
after I delighted you with a compliment you weren’t expecting.

Payments skied and shyness dissolved as a tongue
so used to being bitten whilst acidic snipes rained around
was set free to practise its rusty lines. The times
I nearly failed, nearly nipped it in the bud, never to see

such a beautiful bloom as you and I.
That particular time (about the butterfly tattoo),
when you failed to seal your sentence with a kiss,
you damn right nearly broke my

thumb, as I hastily replied in enquiry/apology/both.
(Turns out you were making tea and rushing).
You caught me, I said.
To catch you, you’d have to be falling, you said.

1 comment:

  1. magical word painting..

    love the flow.
    Keep it up...