Rotten

Do you remember the days we spent
painted in silver and gold? We were just
little birds, the effigies of freedom. I remember
love – you told me about it – and I'm sure
I can feel it if you just give me a year.

I've moved north and west now, the scenery has
changed to beachfronts and ocean-views and
cancer-ridden skin. The sunlit shadows fall nicely on pock-marked
flesh, and at least these people remember to smile. I remember
pale flowers in your hair, the flower-girls and the carriers of rings -
they pretend to love each other in the slow dance. The music changes
and the dance accelerates and rings adorn fingers once again.

You've moved south and east now, the view is
dull but my eyes are getting clearer. I fell for you
in the lackluster back-roads, over telephone wires, on rotten
tracks of wood and iron. These trains are made of pine and water
and they dissolve - the filth stains my arteries, I've been sleeping
by the bay. And, consumed by mental illness and dignified silences,
we draw the curtains closed and let ourselves be alienated by the darkness.

There is no recovery from a romance that nobody recognises -
I hold you close as our memory slips away. I don't remember
the colour of your hair, or how hard your eyes were when I told
you how to lie. But the furtive glances and electronic miscommunication
has to count for something. This, at least, I tell myself as I destroy
the spark of life.