One Sunday on the rocks

I'd probably be wearing denim shorts
with black tights and Oxford heels.
Maybe a knitted lace jumper
or a long sleeved shirt, no,
I wouldn't get cold this time,
I wouldn't feel as if I were an apple without its peels.

My hair would be ash brown
and it would dance in the air like a horse back in the Wild West.
A chanel bag.
Lipstick like red wine, whispering: "hush now, you must rest"
Cheeks so pale,
and a smile so rare.

The river would wash the rocks as the gin washed your mind,
only for a moment,
and then you're back again,
wrapped in the curtains of shame,
do you ever wonder why I was so kind?

This is you on the rocks
this is me, trying to unchain these locks
this is us
pretending it was never there,
it never was
oh love was like a musty air

what ever became of us;
two shadows that just can't coalesce;
Chanel and Ed Hardy.
It surely is
the end of the party.