I guess it’s my kind of love poem. A bit weird. Like I said… my kind of love poem. For the slightly twisted minds… I suppose after over twenty years, my husband got used to my slightly wonky poetry. I like it. Here goes.
I know you
I know you.
I know you like the back of my hand.
Actually, I don’t know the back of my hand very well.
It seems to change,
depending on the light,
time of day,
the whatevers of life,
there’s so many of them.
My veins practise yoga, go for a walk, wander,
disappear in the cold crisp blue of the early hours.
The restless colour of my skin experiments,
keen, confused mood lighting that cannot settle.
Ghostly white, then jaundiced yellow,
blush pink, new dawn peach, hint of sunburn,
shock shamed purple, back to chalk in a heartbeat.
Some days, the back of my hand feels smooth and soft.
On others, stubborn, wrinkly, dehydrated,
not like skin at all, just scrunched up parchment, stuck.
If I don’t know the back of my hand,
then maybe, I don’t know you either.
somewhere between youthful energy
and extra mature slowness,
the more confusing shades of dusk and dawn,
northless and southfull, never clear cut.
So, do I know you?
I know this about you.
But we’ll always walk side by side,
hand in hand,