The waters bleed into the Irwell;
they are stagnant and still around us – only
the occasional ripple of light across the surface
dares to remind us that we are frightened of such Hell.
Across the ink, the lights of Salford set the world aflame
in glaring colours which sting our retinas, until
we are forced to look away,
to lock our gazes on each other – untameable, untamed.
She is beautiful, of course she is;
romance is not for the ugly, never
for the ugly;
I am ugly and broken against her aesthetic thesis.
Her breath comes in ragged contortions,
as the repercussions of our steps coil through
her muscles and her bones –
and I breathe easily and rejoice, in sound’s abortions,
in her company, in the night and the air.
We sway our feet differently,
hers move in directed motion whilst
my own are aimless, wandering things –
her boots on the white stone whisper, sibilantly.
The water and the wind remains silent,
against the threat of our conversation though
she comments on the reflections
piercing the bloody ink like islands;
islands blazed in light.
And she starts,
at every shadow which
dares to pass us by –
and every alien motion stops our hearts.
I want to stop her, to hold her
against the railings or the wall and
press my cracked lips to hers,
like I am stealing honest oxygen – not malnourished air.
But we walk, on and on,
and I am content even as her face alights,
at the lights of our destination –
love is weak word, a flickering emotion,
compared to her – a passing thing; soon gone.