Ours is an overture of sweet sighs,
and anxious attempts to communicate.
This is something more substantial,
I sensed it,
as I slept,
after so much restless writhing.
I don’t think it’s such a bad thing,
to see if I could forget the past,
passing it in the street,
barely bothering to look alarmed,
as I run into your arms,
outside the tube station,
knowing the past trails behind me,
breathing down a neck,
that carries your name,
and the faint frame of your kiss.
I’m not the girl of years gone by,
or even the girl of months ago.
I’m a brass band,
I’m a harpsichord,
I’m a clarinet,
I’m the lyrics I always wanted to write,
I’m the overture for the soulmate I finally met.