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.