There are things I want to tell you,
like how we went for a walk last night
at ten, striding out past the flickering TVs
to the motorway bridge, as the day held
the memory of itself in a thin strip on the
horizon and you spread slowly inside me
like a bruise. Before we reached the railings
we could hear cars scoring tarmac, the soft
howl of lorries singing of places we would
never see. And I wondered if we should join
them, make love one last time in a spatter
of bones and blood on black and white.
But look at the trees, you said, look how
carefully they hide the tremble of birds in their
shadowed hearts. Does this not give you hope?
I kissed you then, pressing your words against
cold steel, as the night uncurled like a fern frond,
leaving me alone, wrapped in the shroud of a streetlamp,
only five minutes from home.
A version of this poem was previously published in StepAway magazine