You, with your ever-glowing lights.
I don’t know why my heart longs
to be lost in your labyrinth.
My curtains could never keep out your voice:
the intermezzo of sirens and garbage trucks at midnight;
Leather Lane Market that chimed before my alarm clock;
the boombox cyclist that rudely lulled me to sleep.
Perhaps you held too many of my memories.
How my heart got broken in the hidden pocket of King’s Cross;
surrounded by a fortress of skyscrapers, shame and silence.
How it broke again sitting by Regent’s Canal - same man,
same wine, same act - how I kept going back.
How the heartbreak of that place mended
with champagne and chips; running to Victoria Park;
the memory of a new man. How I miss his scent.
How I miss creating our private pocket in Islington;
surrounded by trees, oven-baked teasing, and tea.
My words writhe in chaos when I think of you:
a Ferris wheel of events, scents and melodies.
You are the city of discovery I felt at home in,
the city I can’t put on paper.
01/01/2020
12:14 PM
Perhaps inexplicable love is what leaves you tongue-tied as a poet.
