I Waited, While Writing

I waited, while writing, not knowing you waited too, then tucked note book and all my thoughts of Glen Vine safely away, and, on the closed railway line, let my desire for you draw me gently up the steady, shaded incline. Gaining the familiar heights of your flat, I found your note there, seeing for the first time your hand-writing, spiked and sharp like the yellowed, mounted antlers of the Loughton Hare, but the sound of the inky words themselves was round, solid and dark. Hearing your feet on the stairs, wishing last minutes were not so fleet, I turned and saw you in the doorway, tight and controlled and small, the splattered, wet sunlight dripping on the floor at your feet. I stood as still as pain as you turned aside, then down the bedroom hall Your hair was pulled-back and severe, even as two fingers danced, and the purple sigh of ragged flesh turned to black and glistened