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Whilst cycling to Limoux today I saw only one vehicle pass by, a white van coming from the opposite direction with the word CONTACT emblazoned on its bonnet

Alone with my thoughts, words came to mind which I wrote in my head whilst pedaling uphill and downhill. I quickly wrote them on a scrap of paper when I reached Limoux. I sat alone with a coffee  outside ‘Le Cafe Grande’ scribbling away under a still warm November sun. Thinking of my man so far away in Edinburgh.


Corporeal; intimate exchange.

I touch your skin, I smell you,

I feel your sticky warmth.

We are connected and engaged.

Separate, remote contact.

The telephone, a distant voice, an email sent

an email received. Anticipation of a reunion.

Later I write again and await your reply.

The days lay un-quenched.

Lost, no contact.

A silence, emptiness, a hollow in my bed

The room echoes no sound

Still your voice in my head reverberates.


Thread-less and bare

Were we not once affixed?

like contact glue that promised permanence?

There is no life-time guarantee I read today in the small print.

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