I stole his love
while my flatmate's head
was full of trains
Beneath the piles of books
we hid our letters
made a secret language
out of the way
we swept dust from our sleeves
by the way we
sat cross legged
or stood on a table or seat
The last time he
made a visit
I acknowledged
the passage of time
willed it to turn backwards
so as I could stand with him
a twin
so as we could start again
the three of us
living there
love letters under the
piles of books
and a lounge room
full of plastic trains
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.