{been} Dr[I’ve]n (by you)

There was little I could do

in the shadow of 

your mother, a shadow never

quite as shady as

summer branches did provide.

Nor was it right of me

to demand fidelity

from free spirit and bountiful 

being; that being I realise

now I never did know,

and so did never quite

manage to love properly 

either.

And in this shadiness, 

which, these days,

I must see as

shadows, you erupted 

like promise of angelic

giving: what I had wished for

and never quite got

from your mother, I thought –

once again – in pursuit 

of illusion and mirage

and triaged love of three,

splitting thrice, and twice 

and then down to one …

… for that’s how I survived my

life, ignoring the reality of

the people I had before

me, of their realities and not

mine, 

redated.

And that tasting I had of

the wine of your

glances, and your wonderful 

voice, and the timbre of

ciggies and chippie-bread

primitive, and that

engulfing in sex-ridden 

embracing and engaging,

and the marrying of deep 

brains with

the glorious surface of 

the frankest and 

finest of

beauty has left me, finally,

without the words I need

to encapsulate any truth.

Simply to say, where

shadiness was my desire,

but shadow my 

experience,

you are closer – in my mind,

at least – to the protecting,

inflecting, accepting and

goddamn li-

berating shades and colours 

and cool roughings-up

of that real love 

I pursued and 

yearned 

for, all my 

strife.

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