Stuttering around each other in the cab
He brings her fingers to a full stop.
The grey wall says FATQ
It’s always her, breaks the slice
of time between them.
How you doing? Still here.
Her fuzzy blonde head sleeps like my own.
Her armpit has two creases.
His hair grows into his cheekbones.
They chatter into
the best community I could ever learn
Cobbled out into mis-matched chairs
And side-striped felines.
The most gorgeous staircase
Cannot compare to the slim curve of a cat.
They step in time to a curl of
burnt brown crackle, brass door-knobs.
Then we glory
brown floors/red walls/stacked books/tapestry/a white tagine
Messy? You think my apartment is messy?
Every replay I look like it’s the first time
Rewind to look behind their heads
One song - but quickly. Eggshell walls of crackled paint
They step in perfect symmetry, tread coral boards.
They know – hold this – they have sure feet.
She only has chamomile. I feel so caffeinated.
Red walls and crooked postcards
Piles of bedroom stack up in living space.
Dying light doesn’t mean rage is forgotten.
One’s about my cat, one’s about my ex-boyfriend
Play, the waltz.
Shadow of her bicep
Strings minor chord up to c major
One single night with you, little [insert name]
Eyelids lowered against a French ‘r’
Oil paintings butt against each other
like boats in rough harbours
Let me sing, you a waltz.
I saw a triangle in her back,
An oval between buttons of his shirt
You want some honey?
Choosing music in someone else’s house
Is a gift, an offering, a threat, so intimate.
Curl of wrought-iron shadows her hair
White plastic kettle is an oddity.
Wooden hat-boxes curve her jeans
Dancing like she guest-programmed his birth.
Suburban coffee-mug has jazz
and joy in aping Nina Simone.
The rage they spent before sunrise
spins out to where we stop living like teenagers.
I will live there, lounge on stripy couches
Pause to adore angles.
Her hips know.
Let me sing you, a waltz.
She looks like someone I’ve hugged recently.
You are gonna miss that plane.
Today's poem is based on suggestions from @greenspace01 ('sanctuary, worlds within worlds'), and @TheEndeavour ('rage in all its glorious forms'). Which I have teamed with my adoration of Julie Delpy's apartment in the film Before Sunset (and my adoration of Julie Delpy in general. Honestly, is there anything she can't do?)
I wrote this while watching (and re-watching) the final sequence in that wonderful film, starting as they get out of their taxi and arrive at her gorgeous French apartment. I go to that apartment in my head, all the time. You can go there too, if you like. I'll put the spare key on top of the door frame.