TO LOVE YOU, SMELL YOUR SCENT AGAIN,
TO FEEL THE WEIGHT OF YOU IN MY ARMS,
BURY MY FACE IN THE FOLDS OF YOUR DRESS-
THE LOVERS SINCE HAVE SLEPT NOTHING LIKE YOU,
THEY LEAVE ME COLD AND RESTLESS.
REMEMBER WHEN WE LIVED FOR OUR MOMENTS TOGETHER?
A CHANCE MEETING AT A COFFEE HOUSE
WHEN I WASN'T EXPECTING YOU IN TOWN,
THE HOURS SPENT IN CONVERSATION
THE TRAIN RIDE HOME, WE SHARED A CAR...
YOU FELT I HAD ABANDONED YOU,
LEAVING, AS I HAD, WITH YOU ON THE PLATFORM
LOOKING BACK FOR JUST A MOMENT-
THE WIND SWEPT YOU AND YOUR SCARF AWAY,
AND THE DESPERATE, INKY DRIFT OF YOUR PERFUME.
A STUBBORN LIPSTICK STAIN ON MY COLLAR
THE ONLY TANGIBLE SIGN WE MET AND LOVED,
THAT YOU HAD TOUCHED ME.
NOT A LESBO POEM. ACTUALLY IT'S A REFLECTION ON THE SLOW, AGONIZING DEMISE OF PRINT MEDIA, "THE GRAY LADY" OF COURSE REFERRING TO THE NEW YORK TIMES. I DON'T CARE WHAT ANYONE SAYS, READING SOMETHING ON AN iPOD JUST ISN'T THE SAME.
