It’s not the hair free flowing or the South East Asian sun kissed skin
accented by gold, silver and freckle that brought my defences down
but the lapis pendant nestling on her chest – throat chakra, sorry,
and her knees poking out of under the armrests
quite comfortably.
Sucked in the black hole’s core between Whitechapel
and Stepney Green, the silence is now sharp to a point;
there’s irony in the tube feeling especially unsafe when standstill,
but she doesn’t even care, let alone notice, about the delay,
for her stories have already taken her far away
to familiar places of moon baths and tamaraw rides,
glistening under the stars, Mindoro caresses
and the sensation of falling every single day, said her daydreamer eyes,
are all her heart really craves for.
London’s turned my lovemaking downright rusty, she confesses.
It’s time to soar farther from the snow and back to love;
to release myself from this reddening steel enclosure
and to give back all that clogged up sunshine.