A non-poem

You'll knock twice and I'll open the door.

And I won't let my eyes startle

as I grab the white tulips

from your proffering hands.

You will caress the dust off

thick book spines in the shelves

and you'll choose the green armchair

that still moulds round your curves.

I will glimpse your dress billow

as we dance across the room

and you'll laugh, mouth wide open:

"We'll trip over ourselves!"

We'll make love as the sun sets

with each one of our bones

and you'll whisper I love you

with wine painted lips.

B i t b y b i t,

you will colour the details

of my greyscale recalls.

And this poem

will have never existed.