Do you remember who we were

when we were young? Both so sincere

in our misanthropy, the day that we met we agreed

we would rather not know each other.

Then I got drunk  and collapsed on the grass

of the consulate, you practically carried me home.

Those were hot days. You read in the sun.

I smoked on the balcony. We drank strong

coffee and told each other long stories.

There were witches on the cliffs where

armed sentinels guarded the night.

X marks the spot. Our paths intersected

and we walked a year's distance together.

We rode the slow sugar-train and the ferry,

crossed the forbidden border in the bed of a truck—

traveling from one ruined city to another,

lodging in small, airless rooms.

It was intimate the way we lay

together, never touching our limbs.

Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur