"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I can smell smoke on you, not from a cigarette, but from a bonfire.
You smell all sweet, like a wet tree after a hot summer.
I can smell on you the life away from me.
This roguish boy that stole my most important cog.
Besides, I didn’t need it anyway. I put it in the pocket of your coat when you turned away from me. Or so I say.
And all my other cogs turn well enough without it.
I would like to see it though, where have you put it now?
In between the secret lip-salve you keep or with loose change I bet.
Look after it, dear one.
It may not look like much, but it cannot beat alone.
Put it with yours, underneath your blue wool jumper that feels like warming my hands on a tired old fire.
You make my insides feel like damson jam – sweetly wobbly and a little bit sickly.
All the golden metalwork that ticks me over is molten for you.
So I gave you my heart and all my little pieces.