angel kisses

It’s Better to Trust in Strangers than to Stumble with Friends

In the days when I wore my hair up
someone was drawn to me.
Marks and all
he kissed me in my entirety.
In my youth stains of colour were “alright ay”.
We made shapes in the sand dunes, carving out hollows like tandem sculptors.
I’m sure he sampled others
ambitious and bright.

In the days when I wore my hair up
not covering my face
he saw other parts of me: beneath denim shorts
my legs; the flat outline where hips were yet to flourish; my tiny
waist still favoured by my youthful metabolism.
I think he knew -
Sorry, said I –
that I knew nothing,
but that I could invent everything in an instant
with his creative consent.

If I were to walk the graveyards
of windy Wellington streets
I might find him in a corner rolling Peter Jacksons
or perched on rubbish bins
or working in trades;
or I might not.
He could live four lives
or one.
He might not recall
six of the thirty-nine girls he has fucked.

But I know one thing for sure: it’s likely he has
forgotten me.
If my wrist cut his on a pedestrian crossing
he’d never recognise me.
Because at eighteen I wear my hair down
and at God-knows-what-age he still
lies about the truth
without sin nor guilt.