Reminds me of you.
It is funny and quirky and clever and complex and flawed,
And I want it more and more with every page I turn.
The protagonist fascinates;
She is caring and selfless,
Selfish and cruel,
Powerful and gentle
Warm and ice-cool.
She is darkness and light and everything in between
And she reminds me of you.
If we were still friends I would buy it for you.
I would wrap it in embossed purple paper and spend an age
Trying to think of something witty but meaningful to write on the tag.
I would consider a ribbon then discard the idea,
Scribbling ‘yours, as always’, as I always do.
If we were still lovers I would read it to you in bed
Your head resting on my chest, you silent and calm,
Your pale blue eyes tight shut
As the words poured over you.
I would smell your hair,
Breathe you in,
Cup your small white breast in my hand
And stroke you like a cat.
You would purr and stir,
Your hand moving beneath the sheet
To rest on my thigh.
We would kiss
Then fuck like we had all the time in the world.
This book reminds me of you
So I fold it shut,
Put it back on the shelf
And walk away.
Like most of my poems this was pretty much a stream of consciousness. I could have (perhaps should have?) expanded it to explore the full potential for metaphor – a library of you, no less! I may get around to that some day, no doubt incorporating terms like ‘well-thumbed’, and ‘dog-eared’ and making observations about missing pages and scribbled notes in margins, but not today. And not in this poem.