For My Lover, On His Wedding Day

You will have the perfect wedding.

Various nights I have spent, outside your new American Dream house. Just looking.
White picket fences, green ivy tangling itself around the arch of the French doors
In envy, shrubbery, Victorian lamps outside the doorway.
It was a Doris Day masterpiece.
She wore pearls, something like a Cartier necklace.

You will both have your perfect wedding in July.
You’ll drink expensive champagne, cut the 4 tiered cake, she loathes marzipan,
So royal icing will do.
Your birthdays are both in May, you are summer children.
But this celebration has to be a separate occasion.

I remember your first photo with her.
It was outside the Treehouse Club, where you take all your women on first dates.
You had your arm around her waist, it was gentle. It was protective.
She wasn’t Vogue, she wasn’t stereotypical enough to be ‘Vogue’.
More like the front cover of Vanity Fair, lilies on wreaths, how to have great style at every age.

And when you place the ring on her finger,
Every star will fall into place won’t it? Every constellation will frame itself like your smiles.
Happy day.
You will have beautiful children. Blue-eyed and blonde cherubs.
Your lives will be something of an oil painting. Lasting. Irreversible.

I was that watercolour you said would stay.
“We will have the perfect wedding”. I washed off the canvas well.
I am the advertisement for men with penile dysfunction, the old Fancy Dress shop nobody uses.
I am cigarettes in the ashtray, bookmarks in borrowed books,
I am overused, over-borrowed, the mannequin with a broken arm, in storage.

You will have the perfect wedding.
Pearls and all, silk and lace, virginity intact,
White and wonderful.
Sunshine and surprises.
I will have the perfect heartbreak.

And Man Became My Air

I suppose it’s like that.
The way the air rushes into your arms,
Running into your vessels. 

He had a gift of making me feel like, I dunno,
A coin falling, tossed at the syllable of the thumb.
Or that I was the only person in the room.

Mother says buying curtains is what only adults do,
Mother bought my curtains for me, too bad I’m a child.
I ran into dark trails, looking for you.

Your touch is missed,
You were my lungs, vital like most things.
Did you dispose me of them? You did.

I could have slept on your sea bed body forever, so the poets say,
Till you were washed away like footprints in the sand,
When you left do you know where you went?

I could have slammed the lonely nights into the lack-lustre mornings.
Mother says love is the rope of two very unlikely lovers,
An anger and a happiness.

Painted with disillusionment,
You can only find it outdoors, away from the walls of your house.
I think Monet tried to depict it in ‘Waterlilies’.

It’s the air that cooks my heart,
And I can’t taste it singing down my throat,
And so I’ll wait for you in the hope it rushes back once more.