Thinking Infinity
All the days to tread till I meet you. All the miles walking together around
kitchens, homes and showrooms clutching our Tesco/Morrisons/Waitrose-
trolley-full-dreams. Swearing whilst our kids watch us, getting in
a huff over what type of juice is good. I’m young; I’m old, still thinking
this. Every stolen pillow is a memory out of reach on a shelf with steam
pressed showers, clammyfucked meek and sweet. On that ledge there’s
your bottom shaped in tea leaves, stained mugs and all the silent faceless
dreams I’ve had. In nightcoiled alleys you’re lamppost-flashing, winking
a morse code language from a daylight, daybreak, future-never-seen and
there at a place I can’t reach you’re dancing, smiling all-knowing because
my feet can’t walk through time yet. Try as they might I can’t get the dance
right. This could be five hundred poems, and it has and it will, every sky
I’m under is over you, too; every time I sleep I’m eyetight, thinking of
you clearly. All these drinks I’ve drowned, toasted dearly, dear. Every
moment spent ticks towards our meeting, starbound, trapped, heavy
heaving. Kissing. Like this. x. And this. x. And this. x.