memoryhouse

We spent our time together
happy and sometimes speechless,
ignoring the phone,
coordinating our breathing,
pressed slim by the weight of touch.

Come to think of it
our eyes would meet
and we would read each other, our skin,
studying it like a script
we had to learn those days, by heart.

We didn’t leave each other much,
just the invisible ink of our hands.
But I can’t help remembering
the way we held each other –
your hands in mine, the drumming song of our hearts.

I can feel the pressure sometimes still –
your fingers against my chest.
I feel it now. But I still don’t know
who gave my memory of you permission
to touch me, when I try to sleep.

We use our armour to shield our eyes
from starlight and flares,
but it’s no use. Even in silence
something keeps us awake,
lodged in our minds, painful as shrapnel.

In seventy year’s time
everything will be gone.
No one left to speak of us
although speech hurts, a flake of rust
in my mouth in place of a tongue.

I wake up each
morning wanting
you.

First, it was your
lips, then it was
your hands, now

it is your heart.
Now, it is always
your heart.