Drinking Under the Moon

"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

The Shirt

Like a sheath, dropped from your body –
this rag to you is an indulgence to me
as it falls into my cupped hands like water from a leaf.
Not quite close enough, it is a hallow companion to sleep.
I cannot reach for the warmth of you in the night while still greeted by the smell it gives.
Daubed in scent, I shuffle the shirt like a prayer bead through needy hands,
looking for a sweet spot to comfort where you are not.

A head made fuzzy from the dark scent, an addicts hit like the first drag of a cigarette.
I frown to remember the face I crave.

As nights grow longer the smell of you fades from this thing,
a haze of summer dissapates like a warm convection current – skywards.
And in the end it is smothered only with my sweeter perfume as if formed instead into one of my own limbs.


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