That night we arrived in our flat
With escape in a plastic bag.
A forgotten fried egg
With a black yolk
Welcomed us home.
Your bleached hair steaming
From the rain,
A silvikrin funeral pyre.
Undressing, we laughed
At eachothers ribs
I played Beethoven on yours
And you played Bach on mine.
We kissed when both of our
Lips by chance could meet
And I felt old
And over
And in love
And done.
We were already ready.
I took my phone from my pocket.
And captured you again.
You never looked better with a needle in your thigh.
Of all the photos of you with a needle in your thigh, that's the very best .
If somehow we could have children
And our children could have children,
Then one day our grandchild could look at this photo and say,
Of all the photos of my granny with a needle in her thigh,
Thats the very best.
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