It isn’t fraught with questions, angst and sighs.
Instead there’s only light and warmth and air.
We lie, relaxed, beneath the summer skies
On one slow afternoon in Russell Square.
“If this will be my only chance,” you say,
Then lay your head upon my lap, eyes closed.
It’s such a gift, to look at you today,
Without the lockdown wiser times impose.
There’s not a lot of need for words out loud
But when we speak, I’m me, and you’re still you:
We joke a bit; we’re still; we are not proud.
And then you have to leave. And so you do.
I stayed awake all night, as though that way,
I’d stop it from becoming yesterday.