Forgive me as I dip my pen into blood of the past.
Memories. Hanging bright as the whitest moon
in my blackened, indecorous thoughts.
I was his lover, his muse, his friend,
his counsel over secret canal side walks.
Both sharp suited, professional by day,
we drove fast through boundaries
into love first after taking vows of never.
Towpath widened into world of champagne,
shopping trips to Ann Summers, Agent Provocateur,
in Bicester, London, staying in hotels with no cares
who’s there – where he adored every curve of my body.
Crossed texts delayed, mislaid, misunderstood,
snatched hours of lust and hot mugs of tea,
in between days of mutual rampaging jealousy.
His possession and my consequential obsession.
We met in every weather and I dressed for him,
danced for him, submissive to his every whim.
I would have died for him (some say that I did).
Those times at The Cottage we raged in peace,
tangled in a rookery of rope and red thread,
only the Atlantic held us in our iridescent castle
of quicksand. Endless poetry written, photos taken,
music of longing and love’s fatal confusion as “our songs”.
As suspicions grew, intimate rituals and his administration
of injustice grew more painful on my skin and in my heart.
Then I was left all alone with our mourning moon.
Three years later. Cruel mischief reigned again
and returned (as he did promise) to my front door.
I was not there any more. A neighbour told me
a friend called, would not leave his name,
but a photo gave him away. I wrote him a letter,
to say I am better, have a good life now and whatever.
I am resigned to dogma it will never be over,
but I have picked my four-leaf clover – held tight
as I write while he watches in silence from afar.
For him and me – are buried alive – in my poetry.
© Katypoetess 2015