That day you fed me cherries by the waterfall
I remember how white and firm your belly was.
And your lips stained red with the fruit.
I saw you once more in Church Street, hanging
on Steve Jackson's arm, giving him
doe eyes and laughing in an affected way.
I often dream of your white room, the way
you would lie spread-eagled like a doll
on your 'futile', as you liked to call it.
It may have been that for you but never for me,
though of course nothing came of it but love:
no babies, no marriage vows, no forever.
But we laughed easily, felt good together
for a while and bad apart. So, thanks for that.
Steve Jackson, though! He always was a prick.