David

Paris was beautiful;
it shone
and opened up before me
as you didn’t, soothed me
as you couldn’t
and I knew I’d found my friend.

Hours of nothing made clear
what could no longer be
hidden by your beauty,
nor my carte blanche – which
by now
was greyish-black
with over-use.

A glazed look found me:
still painfully in first love, but
wanting you to
know I meant business,
and all the while
not quite believing
I was free.

Dazed, by Continental insouciance
so at odds
with the awkward,
very British
soap opera my life was become.
Though one with poor ratings …

We walked.
Past monuments, trick-turners, graves –
a beggar's banquet,
all of which
was found by the barrel of
my camera lense.

Baggage
drawn on in transparent ink
sank my old soul
and made my scruffy feet hurt.
The irony, I think,
was not lost on either of us.

Alone opposite you
proved the funeral. We dressed our grave
with un-spilled tears and silence;
with known fears and
the threat of violence.
I hated you then.
Perfectly.