Do you remember who we were
when we were young? Both so sincere
in our misanthropy, the day that we met we agreed
we would rather not know each other.
Then I got drunk and collapsed on the grass
of the consulate, you practically carried me home.
Those were hot days. You read in the sun.
I smoked on the balcony. We drank strong
coffee and told each other long stories.
There were witches on the cliffs where
armed sentinels guarded the night.
X marks the spot. Our paths intersected
and we walked a year's distance together.
We rode the slow sugar-train and the ferry,
crossed the forbidden border in the bed of a truck—
traveling from one ruined city to another,
lodging in small, airless rooms.
It was intimate the way we lay
together, never touching our limbs.
Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur