First through that door would walk, I suppose,
A viscous glut of teenage chancings –
So eager to delight, all blasted in
With half-truths, misinformed books on love;
Half hour slots, spreading the time
Before parents came home
And kicked me panting onto the buses
Where I first met your daughters.
The next lot were those who hurt the most –
The arrogance of the late-teen thrusting,
All whalebone and latex, razorblades, detergents;
Certain of slick immortality.
Fingernails collected dead skin in dragging
My back onto your back, and back again,
Before sitting, shivering, staring
At blue lines creeping across white boxes.
Seriousness creeps between the sheets –
Little death, bound in stocking lace.
More tears seep from holes, than
Anything which could keep my attention.
Half-truths, misinformed books on love
Come into the fore –
We say the words, but can’t bear
To look each other in the eye.