Somewhere between Paris and
Brighton is a space between your
Glass and my glass, unfinished
Wine and guttering bar light;
Somewhere between your hand and
My feet, your requests and my
Concessions; held between the exit
And the door, the table and the bar.
I lift my hands up to cover my colour but
Leave my mouth exposed; you tell me
What you know and I hear what I
Knew. The gap between the soon
And the now, your lips and mine,
This sill and that sill,
Your mouth.
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