It wasn’t the best of rests, but it was the sweetest night of sleeplessness. We laid through dark, dawn and day, dizzy with kisses.

In her dressing gown and slippers, she made for the kitchen to make me buttered toast and tea. I stood beside and kindled her smile.

I won’t loan these words, interest-free, repayment guarantee, until my heart balance reads well above the red, instead of leeching from my overdraft; fruitless sprees, falling from my moneytree.

V What are we now? C Too soon, too soon. These hands, these lips, they’ve barely met. V As have our bodies; bare on bare, C our tangled hair, V our tongues and teeth that nibbled as we writhed beneath. C Hush now! Don’t speak so loud, don’t talk so proud or boast of me. V Then what can I say? How do I refer to you and I if not by label or declaration? C We’ll find another way to say those words... V No common phrase or poet’s line could ever serve as replacement. C We know those words should not be said, at least, not yet. V But our vocabulary falls somewhat short of where we’ve come to be. C Don’t think so loud or walk so proud. V Then answer me, what are we now?

C Words- V fail you. Now only kisses come from your lips where once you dared to utter- C but never that! V True, but close. C It cannot be. V Too soon? C Too soon. These lips, those words, they’ve barely met. V But bare on bare they’ve tasted more. C So what are we now? V We’re everything, C but not by label V nor by declaration. C We’ll go about our every day, V we’ll act as if it all were true C and we’ll find a safer way to say I love you.

Black on black, the crystal sheet slipped gently from the naked road, fell wet upon her tarmac skin as morning spilled and tumbled in.

Warm hands of colour touch the scene; a red-breasted bird, a rusty-red car and, all the while, my redder side pines for red on red and the cotton sheet where my naked love still lies asleep.

This is a connoisseur’s world, a society with a bitter tongue that has no taste for romance.

This is an editor’s world, with a ring in its nose and a red disposition to charge at the cape of emotion.

It’s alright, I understand, that anvil round your neck prevents you; forged by a blacksmith who never learnt to love.

This is a foreign world; these words are not of your language.