that morning -
you said to me, “the clouds
are great lips, pursed and wrinkled”

oh how we waste each heartbeat.
how we squander each fingertip-full!
i would give anything to get back to those
summer nights, swilling
beer in bottles down by the lake,
the water gorging itself on our legs,
and the yeasty smell of your skin,
and the next day -
berries for breakfast.

it was unfinished.
the pride of youth would make us
brash enough
to kiss in public.
even when a lady with purple hair
looked down at us, craned down, to
tell us off,
we laughed and apologised
and went somewhere else.

i said to you, “that moon,
doesn’t she look lazy!”

my skin could never cool down
for long enough
to pick up the chickens,
grit under their wings,
and bring them in for your mother to butcher.
i could never bring myself to do it,
and would feebly chase them instead,
giving excuses about their wily
brains and gnarled, arrow feet.

you never believed me,
would take me away to the wine bar
in town and order the cheapest rosé.
i always wanted red,
but never told you.
i guess you thought pink was romantic.

and now, every so often,
on a morning i’ll look up
and see what faces
the clouds make.
and i’ll think of the gift of youth,
and how
we never realised how transient a year could be.