A
tangled shroud
like
Penelope
we
weave/
unweave.
Lips
brush, tickle.
Frayed
threads entwine like
fingers
beneath
your
desk.
Today,
we shelter
our
whispers,
keep
mum the folded
limbs
we harvest.
Behind
the jamb
we
are alone,
safe
from the
spider's
web, but
we
are sticky, all,
entangled.
Bound
in cocoons
until
the smudge of her
neck
in the
crook
of your arm, and
regardless
of what we pretend
there
are footsteps already
in
the sands of our skin.
It's sometimes hard to believe that Edinburgh is a capital city; it can feel like the smallest town. I wrote this poem after getting myself into another of those situations I shouldn't really talk about but can't seem to resist. You know the kind. It's about the friends we sleep with, the secrets we keep, and the messy histories we lug around. None of which, of course, matter at that drunken moment when the door is closed. |