Fiona

Sunday:

I’m turned on by you.

Your breast full in my hand, the sweep of the groove of your pelvic bone and the warm home of your corner of the ocean  - calm now, the water flatly bobbing.

It’s too soon to be breathless -  to have a mind anywhere other than recovery, so I want to kiss you, feel you, and leave you to rest.

I listened to an Irish poet - half listened

And I thought he described romantic love between people as two tides meeting, moving away and then together again. 

I thought about this -

How we romantically and intellectually meet

and how we can then be two tides out in our own seas

and it’s all temporary.

And it’s all constant.

Monday:

Tommy dreamt of the four of us:

You, me, Flynn and him - 

Walking up a spiral stone staircase

You leaned too far forward to look down and fell

He dreams of us, and is worried about you

Love and anxiety - hand and glove

I’m sorry that you now share some of the melancholy of missing them when they go

I appreciate these aren’t necessarily thoughts of you

But they are thoughts of us - not of you and us 

Tuesday:

I left you in bed

Cocooned in blankets, eye mask and earplugs 

Curtains drawn and your daemon snug downstairs

I left out saucepans and prepared the feeder

to help soften the cold slap of the day just a little bit 

Love for me is taking a bullet 

or eating the least well cooked slice of bacon

Wednesday:

Off work sick, my body worn out-

Stress, we think

We had extra time in bed

The peace of a morning routine beckons, 

but I feel the interest of finger tips, the smushing of interlocking limbs and the language of your breathing

I think of the coziness of Norwegian blankets

the warm bath of a far away sun

A dark studio flat and the city clang

Just lying with you in our bed, wherever that bed may be, I feel at peace 

Thursday:

on an island in a river running late

We’re all here - you at a computer, Tommy at a computer, Flynn in teenage day sleep

I read poetry of a man searching for love And finding only bad women - Women the river has drowned 

and I think of you lifting off your shirt

a spark lights your eye as you are admired

And I want to show you passion

a new season will come - it always does 

With flowers, bird song, and clear water

And we’ll have fingers interlocked and grass under our feet

The world will slow and give us time back

The river will be us - over us, in us, flowing though us - wild and in a rush

Friday: 

You bring me in to my family

Before I lurked apart 

Happy for them to entertain themselves in my close orbit 

And depressed and lost when they were not

You bring me in 

You make me stop

You remind me I’m company that people want 

You bring me in 

A wet dog to a fire place