wild sky and
he is really don’t really
I
really me
him and
my whole body breathes
Fuck, he by my ear Fuck you beautiful girl I thought that was never going stop godthatwas wh wwww I can hardly speak. So kiss me and kisses me. Be off all that stuff. Just take the pleasure of being young under his hands. Safe in his knowledge. Full of his heat. Forgetting time passing and the sleep that we’ll need. Separation ahead. Touch. Breathe how he breathes and try keeping him, try keeping him inside. Still though he slips from but whispering Stay. I can’t. I know, and he rolls away That’s just the sex talking now. But pretty good sex. Yeah, not bad. Curl I into then kiss at his hair Oh, getting a bit grey in there. Tell me about it, he says Any more fucking like that and I’ll be white by dawn.
Sit side by side, smiling down, almost shy. He kisses my shoulder every once in a while. Drinking more, now warm, champagne. Who needs glasses? and laugh as our legs shake from the effort of what they’ve been through. Elbows slit carpet burns and where they’ll bruise. He’ll have bite marks tomorrow for I was bad. Such straight teeth! he observes and examines. But stay close these last hours. Fall asleep. Wake. Repeat. Sleep. Do again. All the night wrapped in his quilt on his floor. Eventually him saying No white yet but it’s dawn and we should try to sleep. Don’t. And instead sit the far side of his desk. Pull open his curtains to watch the sun together rise slowly through the Camden sky. Help itself to chimneys. Across bins and bikes. Between footpaths and hedges. Up our naked legs’ swing. His reach to the window ledge. Mine not as long. Take the light on our bodies and not caring who might see from the street. Besides, they’d be lucky to witness. Finish off the bottle. Smoke cigarettes and. White will be the day. Later on, maybe blue. What you’ll do once I’m gone? Sleep and not think about you, what’ll you do in Ireland? Walk. Where? By the lake. Nice lake? Has its moments. Just a month, isn’t it? Yes. But we kiss long to stave it off and shiver in our tiredness until he says Come on. It’s time to get dressed. I’ll take you to the train.
Through quiet Liverpool Street he carries my bag. Quiet concourse. Stansted Express. Quietest platform. Loneliest journey I know. I’ll miss you, I say Will you write? If you want. Or you want. Then I’ll want, if you will. All I want though is to tell him how much I No, go, or you’ll miss your train. Just one quiet kiss more so before taking my bag and going. And. What if he just disappears? Has already gone as utterly utterly as before he came? Snatched look back. No. There he is. Tall in his long coat and glasses. Waving to my wave. Watching me to my carriage. Wave again. Get on and all doors slam. Then the train pulls away.
Easter Holidays 1995
Ireland is what it is. Sealed in itself, like me. I miss London, with my fondness for ignoring in the street opposing endless Howaya’s from impenetrable people to whom I am blood belonged. But I can do that talk. To mind myself, do, for the more vocabulary managed the farther between you. And into that revel space instead open ways of considering aspects of him. The delve deep burn of body. Done, told, and the gap between.
And I write notes about walks. Books. Trips to the flicks then try not to pang for the longed reciprocate. He said he would but he might not, which would be no surprise. Such a plain brown envelope enveloping it when he does, neat in his lovely longhand. Sketch of fraught meetings about his script, a Duchess of Malfi he thought was alright and a chance bump into the Missus on the street — her Easter lunch shopping and pity invite. Nice of her but he probably won’t, though perhaps, if I don’t object? I don’t. So by the next he has. Says my flatmate — and several Czechs — send their regards. He supposes he finds him decent enough despite the way too many drugs — which he knows he is in no position to judge — and the Missus can cook pretty well. Later he tells me to prepare for the change in the trees. How, once it’s warmer, we’ll go lie up on the Heath, read books whose spines we won’t spoil and drink cold beers. That in Regent’s Park the first fat men without shirts have been seen so summer is surely on its way. And I study his chose punctuation for leaks of hide or tell. But do not find so do not ask. Especially about the little girl who is not. And this greater swathe that she cuts through his life, what is its what can it mean? As for his years? What hides in them? Her in almost all my eighteen, then the twenty before I was born?
And something else, though this I don’t tell. It or its resultant fag out on my leg. Choose to recount how my mother instead — at the sight of such obviously male handwriting — said Missy I hope you’re not up to anything over there that would make me feel ashamed! He replies Her concern’s well and truly out of date but, if I’m inclining to make a clean breast, I should mention how those bite marks I gave him have only just healed up.
TERM THREE: Tuesday 2 May — Friday 21 July 1995
Come on to fuck. Will the bag never come? Skate a concourse and lugging for the five o’clock. If I miss it will he wait at Liverpool Street but it is it in old jeans T-shirt, rubbing beneath his glasses’ frames? Trolley guiding to, then from again. Is. With his film cut now all grown in I Hey! Hey, the smile of his see and following down to the end of rail, me. You’re here. Why are you here? I was early so I thought I might as well. And. These are for you, I don’t what they’re called but they smell pretty good so Kiss him. Kiss his lips. On the tip of my toes. But crowds insisting on their inroads push our mouths out of place. Go to again but Give me your bag, he says If we’re quick we might still make the five. And knot his fingers back through mine, to pull me through with Jesus Christ, what’s in your bag? The fucking Good News?
But blessed to a lone lift we indecently kiss. Backs pressing buttons. Mine first. Then his. If the door doesn’t open Opens. He palms his mouth but crushed petals fall all down my front. Platform Two. Come on! Quick! Dash it. Make it. Just to the back. Sit. Go. Kiss and Tickets? I. Don’t worry, I bought two. Clip. Fuck my shoulder! as the conductor aways. Show me? Pull his T-shirt. All bruise broken veins. Sorry, my bag did that. Don’t worry, he nosing mouth to mine and. Kiss, ineloquently, to make up time and. His hand up my bare back and I climb across his lap and. Him over my shoulder, quick checking the carriage If we’re quiet. Never mind quiet we’re almost at Bishop’s Stortford be quick! Yeah quick won’t be problem I’ve not had sex in a month. Really? Really. Me either. You could have though Why? Because you said? No I just that’s not what I meant Don’t spoil it Alright I just I meant Ssssh Okay, he says and Fuck that’s good.
All mess walk back through Liverpool Street. He leads through the throng and the want is unspeakable but the tube rub of sweating from infinite people slowly nulls off his smell from my hair. Slung so close in the crush though I could bite his neck. I think to but don’t do. I’m watching you, he says like he knows and he does know, well. And although he’s too old for kissing on trains, he’s considering it. I see that on him and exacerbate by letting each jolt jab me in. Just relief then in the breeze at Kentish Town.