by Andy Slade
Your teeth have become tusks,
a warm, ivory, smile, worn as a token of trust
your hand meets mine unseen, as if through a letterbox
where love-letters passed and love letters past
were rescinded, regretted, suppressed.
You feel the wrapping and curling of fingers,
the pulsing of blood through adjacent wrists
these beats the same reasons for which we exist
these warm-iron chains - the tender links of promise.
In learning your truth with an odd pleasure
when your cruel pleasure mentioned your love
when you come, hunter-like, stalking emotion
deploying rumours and bijou lies for success.
Were I but an albatross and you a dragonfly
making love out of gold dust and warm waves
of second-hand news, we would be everywhere,
never going back again and each upon our own way home.
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