I love you, your fingers wrote in water
Mix tape
By the time I had decided what songs to put on the cassette mixtape, they were all already classics. I did not want to appear too wedded to the past, so I thought again. By the time I had newly finalised my choices, you had told me about your new CD player. I had to save up for months. And by then there were even more songs that said exactly what I wanted to tell you. I thought again, perhaps for too long. Well, definitely for too long, we both know that. Or I know that, and you would too if I had made the mixtape. The songs are still here in my heart.
Bus stop, Sunday morning
The bus shelter must have been hosed down afterwards. Frosted ferns spread across the clouded walls. Thinned-rust ice dribbles meaninglessly down to the gutter. People frown at the sooted lamppost then see the torn blue tape. A robin cocks its head, challenging our gaze.
Bus stop, early Saturday afternoon
The bus stop is crowded this afternoon. Large men in kilts and rugby shirts wait patiently, beardedly. “Is it going to say dry?” “Aye,I think so. But there’s the cold coming.” They look west.
The couple with the dog in a coat are less patient. He is shaking his head like a cartoon character; she rests her gloved hand on his raincoated arm. “It’s getting colder, isn’t it?” “We wouldn’t be feeling it if we were on the bus.”
A robin fluttery-swoops down towards the shelter then sees the dog and banks away. The bus arrives. It does not look as though there will be room for everyone.
Closing the blinds
As I read your message, someone closed the blinds to stop the sun slanting in. I immediately thought it was a metaphor – then took a long hard look at myself and gave myself a talking to. Tomorrow, cliches.
From inside the office
Window cleaners swing on ropes
Commandos with a squeezy mop
I can see clearly now
The turning
The turning of a month, the turning of a year.
A birthday ticking over from nine to none.
The turning of a page, an opening,
Even at the end of the book.
A new chapter, a new story.
The turning of the year, the turning of your year.
The turning of a page begins a new story.
The turning of a year begins new life.
Control. Alt. Delete.
Control. Alt. Delete.
Blue screen sky, crying mothers.
Delete. Alt? Delete.
oh
I look over her shoulder
I look over her shoulder into the bathroom mirror.
Her face is pale and beautiful.
She sees me behind her and starts.
‘Are you stalking me?’ she asks.
I smile but do not speak.
She does not turn around.
I think she says ‘I love you’ but the words are too soft to hear.
I try to speak but my voice is caught in my throat.
I hope she can read my love in my look.
I lift my hand to touch her neck.
She closes her eyes and, when she opens them again, I am gone.
simonsalento 