• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 09

Nocturne in D minor

You call me in the middle of the night.            
Somewhere in Wardour Street my next
lover is kissing another man. I pretend
to be asleep, you whisper words of lead.
The ceiling drips, brow tingles, suddenly
the moon tastes of blood & it smells like 
your grey wedding suit. Someone should
photograph me dying here, underneath
the canopies, wearing only my favourite
cashmere jumper (had it not been forever
borrowed by an architect I dated for two
weeks). See, this light is the mother of all
quietude yet at this hour the glass cracks
triumphantly, there’s honey in your voice. 
Onyx skies infiltrate these forests & I am
reminded of shiny droplet constellations
sparkling on your chest hair as chainmail
after you shower. The phone still chimes
as the blossoming bells of my hometown.
It is late, a desolated Manhattan bar sees
another ex swallow vodka martinis (three
olives) cold as perpetual snows, all of this 
just before noon; & he googles “psychics
near me” – they will tell him all the things 
I once gift-wrapped in little purple parcels:
the fool, knight of swords, reversed tower.


Nocturne in D minor

But now I need to paint these walls, a cave
for sirens, glistening with yellow stars from
the ringtone. Rain floods the room until I
answer, turning this bed into a big Scottish
lake. You stare. Etched in the back of your
throat are the things you never said, lonely
aeroplane tickets, intermittent songs of lust
& grief. What do you want, I ask you now.
You say: my love, tonight I could not sleep.