Sunday 15th May 2011, A. Palmer
From picking hay
off clothes endlessly,
to running back towards one another
on a rainy night in November,
to the corners of every
Baroque offset of Vienna,
we smiled, didn’t we?
Children, really, when we started:
kisses like a newborn deer, stumbling
onto the next stage we’d read about.
We never made it to Vienna.
Now you live parallel,
in more ways than two, and
I’m stuck on you
trying to live the life I thought
I’d be lucky enough not to.
I’d wanted it to be intimate,
letting in only a few.
So whilst my heart
becomes a party of
guests who no longer care they’re there,
I’m sat in the corner,
laughing at the bits I think were intended to be amusing,
and avoiding debates with “I agree”
and mouthful after can’t-talk-mouthful of nibbles,
half the world away,
half my life away,
dreaming of Vienna.