I have my heart's old malady. It's a bloody muscle the heart, and I am lost in the foundry of flesh. Love's scum rises to the top. We are making a forgery. Or else we are forging something utterly new.
What can I give you? I give you the summer, salt on the rim of two half-saucer glasses, sleeping beside ourselves under a scribble of stars. Elsewhere in the universe the tsars are ordering the beheading of the clowns. Here, let us step into the light. We open the door onto the carpark under the fumed blue of a bombay sapphire sky. Laughter rises from us, easy as birdsong in this new day. I am lost in love. Am lost.
I give you the earth. Read its maps as relics: Islamabad, Jakarta, Hartshead Moor. I give you the fullest moon the heavens can roll out. Voluptuous as a pearl. Be morning to my pillow, I say. Multiply my joy. Make me crest. Keep me there.
You offer me your dictaphone, press the play button to let me hear myself arriving in love's unbreakable heart. And there is nothing new. Nothing. Not cabbage, not soul, not a man in black feathers. There is simply me, in only my own skin, behaving just like myself, making it all up out of nothing.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
