Amelia Harlow

A poem

It tears at my chest
always on holidays
like wildfire in summer winds

it’s the hotel rooms
the perfectly made beds
where everything felt in its place
for those brief, and perfect hours
where our love knew no inhibitions
where we surrendered to each other
our beautiful secret

now I write you
about the Sardinian sunsets
the wine, and the long drives
I visit the places you loved
and I imagine you with me
but all we have are postcards

friendship
a compromise
a result of our cowardice.

--

--

Photo by Joackim Weiler on Unsplash

White walls, pieces of you on display
carve yourself out
and offer everything
drip, drip

I taste you in the Pinot Noir
as you slide over my tongue
the fragile stem shakes in my hand
sweet grapes
Primevère
you and I, a swirl of colour

our autumn in Burgundy
your fingers stained with paint
as you pushed them into me,
together in the golden meadow,

I offered you everything,
almost.

--

--

Photo by Josh Wilburne on Unsplash

Droplets of paint
red, red and red
on the steps of this brownstone
three drops
one for each day you sat there
brush in hand

empty pack of Marlboros
soggy, plastered to the sidewalk

corner shop
overpriced milk
you hated the cheap one
I wish we could fight over it
one more time

pieces of you
pieces of you
in just one block.

--

--

Photo by Cecile Hournau on Unsplash

A glimpse
of what she holds onto
on the edge of the bed,
on the edge of her mind
she balances

she can’t savour the taste,
the rush,
as she lights up
not from two places

curtains drawn
alibi
the weight of it all
so heavy I can see it

it pulls her down
like an anchor on a chain
but she’s still there
tethered to the surface,
to the vessel,
on the edge of the bed
telling me this time is the last
a lie neither of us believe.

--

--

Amelia Harlow

Amelia Harlow

Queer woman and author of lesbian romance/erotica, among other things.