A crowded bus. Liquid penetrating glances under the skin. Today she gave me her pink handkerchief. Tears, gasps, pieces of her fragmented self. Then we held hands and felt our moist concrete touch. The city melted in her clasp … soft rock, ‘marmalade skies’ and audible lights. I smelt glass in her porcelain smile.
More mirrors exploded in me … more reflections inwards. Summer. People stared. A bed crowded with memories. More letters in the waste-paper basket …. more fireflies in scents of aborted poems … more layers of self-mutation and existence. Furniture speak.
Dreams. Women in sandpaper nightgowns reciting rock. Jazz from 1973 on grandfather’s gramophone. Crumpled sheets of Fibonacci … the telephone documents your troubles faithfully. The handkerchief morphs into moon … the girl in lingerie morphs into rain. The coffee turns sour in your camera.
As usual, you’re thinking sex again.
You’re dreaming of birds and torn linen. You’re speaking like waterboats in the glass rain. Wedding flowers in rebellion. Bird-eyes through the bathroom curtain. Conceal. Reveal. Caress. Tremble. Exhale. Airplanes half starved in jeans trousers. Pink is your language of laughter.