I kissed you too much that morning. Or it could’ve been too often.
I don’t know which it was. I’m just sorry. I’ll blame the returning sun,
the way it had silently purged the dark night of darkness, and the
drunken streets of drunkenness, and shown me with its straight face
that not even within an eternity could I ever kiss you enough,
never quite capture something enduring of you with lips or eyes,
never leave myself properly marked, stained, different.
I don’t pretend to know what ‘good’ means; I just know that it’s
what you’re gone for. Those final moments before the first one,
before everything changed, I cannot find. Amongst all this
intangibility, I’ll start my frantic search for what was important,
what really mattered, when the need inevitably comes calling.
Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes poetry, short stories and non-fiction. His poetry has appeared recently in Clear Poetry, Alliterati, and Firewords.