I forgot to shut the window last night.

Moonlight bleeds through the shutters and November wind

solidifies the atmosphere – my breath may be blistered, and

my voice box hoarse, but the orchids around your pillow

still flourish as if it were midsummer.

This room is a motorway. But the cars, they cannot touch

us whilst we are together. These sheets are angels,

and this patchowrk quilt is a heavenly shield.

Two twenty-five; I feel your serene fingertips trace

the pads beneath my turqoise-tipped nails.

Only semi-conscious.

You must have been blinded by the headlights.

 

In distant hours like these, you show to me your

amphibian tendencies – under abstract light, pigmented

stains of yellowing violets and painful greens

illuminate upon your flesh.

This bed must be a metamorphic chamber where only I can

see your colours. They say the eyes are the

windows to the soul, but that suggests breaking glass

like a seasoned criminal.

 

You’ll just have to leave

them ajar for the wind to catch the curtains and refresh

your jaded heart.

Maybe I could plant some forget-me-nots there?

***

Το έγραψε η Ellen Kinson. Το βρήκα στο Ambit τεύχος 195.