Thursday, 4 November 2010

Many moons have passed

since she smiled into the sun, and, basking in its simple Ray, held Friendship by her softened hand, performed Yeats and Kavanagh with a girl whom she loved, performed life with a girl who loved her. Many monsoons have passed since she walked alone through the dark yet glittering city to which she was assigned, caught a train and was watched , felt a shiver down her spine singing Ssweet Caroline, to distract herself from the notion that all was not fine- it's been an even longer time since your fingers traced her back, her private smile and public laugh- at your messages in fingerprint ink- inky articles- too good to be truthful, too truthful to be good, on her back, which was tanned and smoothed by summer waves and freedom, bikini bottoms piled in a long forgotten stack- Messages lend to Guess work and tentative loving. Too much yet too little. Her hair looks quite brittle, in this light. It's a pity, my pretty, that so many moons have past. Where is she now? Have you let her slip? Silent debates- thinking, It's been a while since I held her, cradled her in my arms and told her she was beautiful- laughed, of course she had a place here! Told her there was no need to worry, that what she needed was a cigarette, a passionate lover- holiday resort- brother. That it was okay to ramble. That rambling was beautiful. That it was okay too, to use that word as frequently as she did. That her state of flux was something she could and would contend with, that there was special packaging for fine china like her, that nothing was too much, too much of a question. That her tears were salty, sad to watch. A little-old girl cry. It's been a while since she saw the lighthouse, it's been a while since she watched herself die. It's a pity, my pretty. Now look me in the eye.

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Conceal me in your draw-string bag,

all lily skin, iced heart and plaid.


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