There is a moon, making sure I get home safe,
but I suspect that safe is the last thing I’ll ever be again,
at risk of a dangerous kind of devotion,
the kind where I am defined by how I looked in your arms this evening.
You told me,
in a whisper full of wanting,
that I was your lover,
the kind of girl that could be contained by no other,
neutralised by your possessive kiss, as you push me from the dance floor into the shadows,
where nobody can touch or take a look at your treasure.
Being in love with you is a bind that I hope to always find myself in.
I’m so beautiful when I’m by your side,
like something rare and real important,
so I follow you around everywhere,
like a puppy or a bad penny,
sticking to you like the stars stick to clear skies,
and nothing else,
if that’s what you need.
It’s dreadfully unhealthy,
I told you,
this devotion is dangerous.
I know that you get jealous of every little thing,
the air that surrounds me as I exist,
the places I go as I dream,
the ink that stares up silently from my stories,
if you ask me nicely,
your arms around me as they were a moment ago,
maybe I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.
I am at large on the Dartford loop line,
like a lark,
singing La Vie En Rose to myself, as you rise from the safety and sanity of our sheets,
possessed by the power of excitement,
anticipating what will occur when I am home.
When the door closes,
my keys will clatter in the bowl and I will be your lover.
I will be nothing else but whatever your heart desires,
and that will be enough.
Perhaps the door will open again someday,
the keys will be lifted from their place and paraded somewhere new for the day,
but no matter where I go,
I will be your lover.
You tell me, as I round the corner, that I am so close to home that you can almost taste me, and you, starving in the best way, can’t stand it any more.