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Afterwards you had gone
when I was picked up
from the edge of the flames
by the first two policemen,
almost like you hadn’t been there
in the first place,

Removing all traces
of your mudden footsteps
and the stains of your denim jacket
which had touched the
edge of the shelter
like you were trying to edit yourself
out of the story,

until it got to the point
when you turn the lights down
and ask yourself whether
the conversations you had
were real,

or imaginary fragments
sulking at the edge of the quays
of some untold novel
lost in your thoughts

letting your perfume carry
a wordless thank you
over what you had just done.

Posted by onewriterandhispc at 11:43