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.