he doesn't love you. Enclosed: a letter
he wrote me this week. Such twaddle. And yet - a
touching wee note. He ought to know better

but darling he doesn't. And won't. You see
when he kisses you - albeit passionately-
what he's doing (his own words) is thinking of ME!

Get out while you can.
There should be a ban
on marriage forever
to bastards like Stan.

P.C. March 2004

[Txt me if u want 2 -- 07756043357]  

>Pish, eh? I could answer with words explosively rude,
>Sarky and crude as you like, but I'm not in the mood.
>Natalia is hunched at the end of the bed, almost nude,
>Trimming her toenails, so concentrated. A woman
>Can be so complete in herself, so - just so human.
>It's unpressurised minutes like this that I treasure,
>Of pure easy pleasure too fleeting to measure.
>Well, once I was happily close to you, too.
>I'm watching Natalia, but I'm thinking of you.
 
>There are moments I'd like to relive, to recapture. One kiss
>Especially. I know that we kissed. I know bliss
>Of some sort occurred; I've a diary that reads: "This
>Was an evening of bliss! That kiss!" with no further clue -
>But what was the context? I don't recall. Would you?
>What was the look in your eye? What did you wear?
>Was that before or after you cut your hair?
>This morning will vanish too. Mornings do.
>I reach to touch Natalia, but I'm thinking of you.
 
>I reach out to touch Natalia knowing
>This beautiful toe-trimming moment is going
>Where all moments go, that it's fast flowing
>To the dark dumb sea of not-knowing. It won't be spared
>Any more than the good days you and I shared.
>Because there were good days. There must have been.
>I try to imprint a detailed picture of this scene
>Unerasably in my mind. I try to.
>But as I watch Natalia, I'm thinking of you