The favourite colours of my life make love over the horizon. Feet pressed gently in silver moon boots scuff at the worn wooden decking as I swim along the notes of the moonlight sonata that drips from the faucet of the man’s soul in the room behind me.
Deep yet light in his wanderings.
A shared winter’s joy and collaboration.
I with keys that create words. Him with the ones that milk song.
All rendered from the same essence.
From times of great joy, the soaring heights of ultimate pleasure and the billowing fall from the same lofty peaks.
The knowing feeling in your heart.
The growing, echoing, emptiness.
Alone in the 11pm rain, waiting for a bus that never comes.
I watch the warm and lit windows below me.
Wondering of their lives.
Of their cuddles and tenderness.
Of their squabbles and foibles.
All ape, all human, all sweat and grot and wees and poo.
All political beliefs, spiritual journeys and sexual fantasies.
What makes them feel whole?
What is the saddest song ever written?
When was the most poignant moment they ever heard it?
Did they weep when their mother’s died?
Did they care for Diana and the birth of the new royal sprog?
Have they ever eaten frogs legs and howled at the moon alongside their naked beloved?
Have they ever clutched someone as their body’s convulsed in terror or deep grief? Whilst mucus flowed like The Nile from their spluttering noses and mouths over the loss of something so dear to them that they can’t fathom leaving their bedroom, opening their curtains or using any words to communicate even a simple hello for months on end?
Have they weathered the storms of loss and gain, jealousy and revenge and still continued to love themselves through it all? Because of it?
Wrapped up like newborn babes.
Safe and warm from the harsh realities of the world.
Ready to rise again and again..
With wooden sword in hand and colander-hat on head.
Ready to face that world.
With grin on face and sparkle in eye.
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