I clearly remember the last
conversation we had
before you honeyed me to death.
I recall you stood on
your last legs of youth,
determined, unexpected in my
front room, brandishing the
day’s newspaper like a
truncheon, smiling hard as if
your mouth was holding your
tired, suntanned skin on to
your face.
If I’m not mistaken you were
damp from a summer downpour,
hinting, pulling at sodden floral
cloth like dogs tug at
blankets for attention, uttering
pseudo-profound phrases
fresh from the footnotes of
organizational diaries, and
your gaze didn’t drift from me,
following me like
helicopter beams trace
urban criminals.
When I finally screamed and yelled,
demanded to know who
let you into my house,
you just laughed.
Then you held a dainty
finger to my lips like it
was the missing piece in the
indent of my philtrum, and
gravely accused me of
focusing on the negative in the
situation yet again.
