These boys who eyed me through a friend
and saw a challenge,
who saw my proprtions
and were satisfied,

held me close and whispered sweetness
that not only glazed my hearing
but sugared my eyes
and frosted common sense.

They taught me the meaning
of being in love,
then dashed it against the wall
as the door slammed.

In a matter of days I was anaesthatised
by those three words
and I didn't feel a thing
until the silence came back with a hiss.

With eight letters
they quelled questions and tears building pressure
for when that particular bung should
spring loose and leave me

bailing out water, sinking,
my heart wrapped in sailcloth.

This knowledge plagues my thoughts
as I speed towards a city
 - on a train on a train -
a city with the promise of a lover in the air.

Ploughing through these
inbetween places a craving starts;
a craving not to know.
I want no suppositions or predilection
to cloud my impression of this new suitor.

Instead I take the luxury of hoping that
he finds more behind these eyes
than others did and finds some other words
to say to stay under my skin.