These long, hot middle eastern nights
Are killing me.
I lie awake imagining
The smell of lemons
And those odd squashed figs
That you gave to my mother.
And thoughts turn greyer
Like irish summer skies over Glenteenassig
And everything becomes bitterer sweet.
This throbbing isn’t just between my ears.
Not anymore.
It’s deep in my chest.
And it rises up my throat
With each encroaching minute.
The low slope of your nose
Is still in my minds eye.
You always seemed so unjustly guilty.
And all these words can’t be helping.
Instead let me be brief:
It would be nice if the idea of you
Would let me sleep.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 