Simon

Dark days when rain drips

From the leaves of the magnolia

And wind whips

The panes.

We lie candlelit inside

Beneath the weight of our feelings.

You rest your body between my legs.

We are bare to each other.

My hand moves smoothly,

Tracing the shape of your head

As it rests gently upon my chest.

I read from gilded pages;

All the longing and woe of Edgar Allen,

The anti – warfare fervour of Brecht.

You pour tea from porcelain pots

And when you tire of words,

Aroused by the shape of my mouth

The book I hold falls

And the pages collapse in on one another,

Their letters mingling and joining,

Forming sounds unheard before,

Until there is no telling anymore

Which is the other.