the tenth year.

this book, this page, this hareball laid to rest.

between those sheets, these leaves, if pressed still bleeds.

a watercolour of the way we were.

those years: the fuss of such and such a day,
that disagreement and it's final word

your inventory of names, dates and times.

my infantries of tall, dark, handsome lies.

A decade on, now we astound ourselves;
still two, still twinned but doubled now with love.

and for a single night apart, alone,

how sure we are, each of other half.

this hareball holds its own.
let's give it now, in air, in light,
the chance to fade, to fold.

here, take it from my hand,

and now, let it go.