I rather imagined I’d see you again.
With your ripe mouth and startled-up hair.

I liked your spikes, you see.
Strolled them down Oxford Street,
arm like a scarf draped to your shoulder.
Catwalk carrier bags, smart phones, over-priced bananas
licked our steps of spun sugar,
lipped strawberries from our gourmet cup.

I rather imagined there’d be more.
The angle of your hips was more than hint,

your creases curled a finger, once, twice.
My pulse came running.

We flowed like a brush-stroke of crème-de-menthe
down the Champs Elysee.
Eagle-beaked hotels, cameras, fur coat defiance,
some with two legs, some four,

licked the honey off our busy breath,
dipped bread in our coffee-cream wake.

I rather imagined your eyes, like almonds
I want to say, knew the way over that bridge
rusted by dew,
bind weed, dandruff.

Turned to watch your back slip spineless into Bond Street,
I was quite wrong.

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