White t-shirt casually flung lightly,
draped over your right shoulder.
Left elbow points towards the sky
as your left hand massages the back of your neck.
I’m a few steps behind, following you,
unintentionally at first but that soon changes.
Catching your sweat on the stifling breeze,
the harsh manly smell of your armpits.
Watching as beads of sweat roll down your back,
hitting your waistband,
some down the top of your crack.
Your body twists checking for traffic,
a flash of your hairy chest and your side profile,
skin rough and shimmering in this heat.
A detour for me, this isn’t the way home,
just to watch the muscles in your shoulders move,
to catch you on the breeze again.
Dixeia lands on palm, fragments shared in a pensive ellipse. Ferris wheel framed, spinning joy, in a tree’s gap. Windy sleeves, a white mask watches in a French window. A bruised side, a meditation accident in a Sunday.
Arm and cigarette hang out of the bedroom window,
a half full ash tray sits on the sill with me,
you are on my bed, cross legged and thinking.
Christmas lights are draped over a smeared mirror,
dead soldiers and empty commanders on the shelf,
sixties soul and late night grooves on random,
we’re on fresh coffee and yesterdays wine,
still hungover from the last few nights.
It’s two in the morning and we have writers block,
Pan’s Labyrinth and the profiteroles are waiting.
Crawl into the painting, slip in between strokes, wrap up in warm colour. It hangs there waiting, in a drab sitting room, dust over its entrance, broken bottles below. Beauty in chemicals, powdered still waves, an idyllic harbour, away from the storm. She stands there silently, looking out to the seven seas, water coloured by her charm. A face that was never painted, a familiar soul, with welcoming arms, beckoning the oceans, inviting us to escape.
You float, that is the best way to describe it, it’s also the worst, you’re better than that. Your skin is the palest blue, you are the envy of the sky. Clouds won’t touch you, oceans will mimic you, lost air who found each other, an angel between atmosphere and space. You’ve probably had many names throughout our history, clarity can’t compare. I can’t define you, never will we. Halcyon Pale is how I think of you, but it will never pass my lips. You are forever.
A spare room full of dreams and hope, arms aloft to the submariner’s scope, funk and New York nightlife join in. Conversations through a stranger’s window, enthusiasm, singing and my boy’s smile. Red wine washes away the nine to five, sun setting to blue and golden skyline, holiday magic that money can’t buy.