Poem: Romance


I met him by Swift,
Where the potential of words
And the smell of ground beans
Caused the sly glances
Between soft pages
And over covered volumes.

He spoke softly, to himself and even when
We were alone, and I had to lean.
I sank softly into his
Voice. He read to himself,
Drawing me deeper with his

Every Tuesday
At a quarter to half past five
We gathered ourselves between
The shelves and kissed without touching.

One day he finally took
Hold, and I touched his arms
As he kissed my nose.
He was sweet and tough
Like an almond. We clung
To one another and left
The safety of the cash registers behind.


Two poems from the same time that might actually be half decent – how about that?!

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