It was in the small town of Dijon that we met,
A small village pitted with houses
Each pock-marked with windows.
Each house framed by the shadows of the mountains
mountains pink with radiance
shining on blue sapphire spires.
We had met in the summer of 43.
He was tall, bereted
always a cigarette gracing the corner
of lips
at times quivering
at times pouting
but always taut with desire.
I also smoked.
Those were the days of dens
where people drank, snickered secret thoughts to strangers
where people drank
where souless lives inhaled
the smoke of others.
Where cameos were snapped and imprinted
on the brows of those they watched.
It was after one of these nights of fire
where my head beat like a passionate drum
imprisoned by the warmth of absinthe.
Exploding in a cacophany of colour
darts of orange, red, blue, black and aqua
cavorting,
playful in the disintegration between a
dream
and reality.
But indeed our paths did cross
again.
It was after the war.
Like children, wicked with desire,
we fled.
I think it was a haystack.
We ran through the forest, laughing
leaves covering our tracks
hands clutching, fingers clawing,
gently, at each other.
We passed others as we ran
naked lovers,
people grabbing at time
time lost in a warp of senseless hurt.
Flesh warm as melted butter on fingers
of freshly toasted bread.
Alone, at last
Where to look?
What to touch?
Debauched?
Only in the eyes of those who fear
a tender kiss.
Two years of thwarted passion
exhumed.
Bodies entwined, as one
grabbing at needles
moonlight pervading.
painting with words 