Sat upon the terrace,
chilly as only mornings can be,
as late as the day could take.
The heat from the coals,
a glow from distant shores.
This uneven terrace:
seven seats, two sitters
A single quilt.
an adventurer with ice
between her tongue and lip.
Took it out and threw
it into the dim heat
still very red
peering from beneath,
yearning with envy,
of the single figure before it.
between the potted plants
and remains of a celebration…
The scent of burnt and browning confections; ambient marshmallows
that always look too ashen
or too charred to appetise.
Neither could we swallow the laughter
that followed, nor did we remember
Much like homeless houses, silence
was either kept aside or foregrounded.
Similarly impenetrable and pregnant
with New Loving and New Worrying.
Much like it is with homeless houses,
who can tell the difference? Not me.
A pack of
That treacherous night,
another bad habit was lit.