Sunday, 23 November 2014

November Day


You said the most beautiful thing
about that day, was me,
in a Saturday pony-tail,
woollen jumper, and jeans,
and you said it didn’t matter how many times
you had seen, all those dresses and
heels that I wear – you told me you loved
when I was really there, as gentle and soft
as the autumn air, and all the wisps and spirals
of hair that, untamed, sprang forth,
from a hat - that,
you said,
was the diamond, the pearl:
and how your eyes could skate
across the curve, of the serpent of my lower back – and oh, you waxed
lyrical
about the nip at my waist that was the
pinnacle, of joy amongst November trees,
all in filtered sunlight and falling leaves,
and the sight of my soul, you said you
could see, was smiling, like the light
in my eyes:
laid bare, we wore 
no disguise, only a promise
that all words here
were true. And I whispered, that yours were wrong, because,
what was truly beautiful
that day,

was you.
   

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