black tea
& the memory
in the black tea
is a
metallic tannin taste
that sits
on the very tip
of my tongue
& reminds me of the
river
we swam in last
summer as the
leaves turned the water
brown
& it was the colour of
your eyes that
drowned me in the
currents of your
hair as I
sought the bottom
of your neck
with my nose
&
your skin smells
salty
&
secret
& lush
&
swift hands
suddenly stumble
as I smooth your
hair from your
face
& seek your
lips
& kissing you is an
echo of every
kiss
where none
sound
quite-the-same
&
come from
different-directions
& are really
all just imprints
in your
soft
& supple lips
of that
first kiss
& a memory
of black tea
Brendan encouraged me to post this up. I'm going to work on it more, maybe make something of it. But if I may say, I really like the flowing-ness of it. And it all just happened on a train, which is the best way to write: when it isn't an effort.
Love