burnt pages

i put classical music on the record

player to make me smarter,

and books in my bed when

i sleep, too. polaroids fall out

of jacket sleeves, remind me

of the past; and of the future

too. no more caffeine and no

more whiskey. just tea and

wine and conversations over

jazz. walking around in dark

stockings on the carpet and

hoping the telephone will ring

hoping for good news from

somewhere. orange poppies and

pink dahlias and landscapes,

borders and treelines. dried

bouquets and photos that didn't

turn out, growing my hair out.

long sleeves and lawn leaves

and bed lamp and my bed with

books under the covers keeping

me company. burnt pages and

ages of dreams and memories

bleeding and seeming to know

something i don't. looking forward

and back and always the past,

kissing his butterfly eyes and the

hair on his neck and always the

australian bracelet keeping me close

to him rests on my wrist and says

its okay, i love you.