Insomnia

I talk to you at night.
I meet you in dark corners
or on the balcony
of friends we don’t know
except as accomplices.
 
I tell you things
which I’ve imagined
for months, for years:
your hair
in the autumn breeze;
your smile
under winter sky;
your bicycle
by a tree
in a spring park;
the colour of your dress
when you walk on
a summer beach.

Glimpses of these things
wake me up at night
and leave me
these conversations
which never happened,

these conversations which will never occur.

Tom Phillips

If you have any comments on this poem,  Tom Phillips  would be pleased to hear from you.