By Theo Turner
Lilac cards lay strewn on the carpet.
A smattering of patterned backs and pruned plum pips
Discarded from whatever
Late night
Mystic revelries
You previously entertained.
You lounge above, on the sofa;
Book in one hand, coffee in another.
A singular chipped violet nail
Taps each grape in turn, on the chipped mug
(Your mug).
The lamp is on,
You bought that shade
From the shop down the road
So it can throw heathered hues
On your favoured kitchen table spot.
I ask to borrow your perfume –
I have a date later and he seems like a Poison Dior kinda guy.
You smile your assent so I pad to your room.
There a rug fills the floor
Like a fresh bruise
Spreading on soft skin.
A thistle charm
Hangs
From your windows’ handle.
It reminds me of the amethyst earring you wear
And tug when too many people enter the room.
Returning, I spot a lavender circle poking from your jumper;
I know you sleep in that top.
I’ve never seen those sleeves that brush your knuckles,
Brush your knuckles outside.
You claim it compliments your eyes.
I think they need no trouble with that
But let you have the excuse
So I can spot the tannin soaked tell of your presence.
The juice stained thumb marks from your love.
You tell me you want to plant a wisteria
In the pot on our balcony.
This flat will be long gone by the time it first blooms.
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