Under the sunburst and above that utopian grassland, I wrote some mawkish lines of two lovers’ dialogue in your suede-covered journal. You had your ukulele and turned my haiku into serenade. The first story I ever told you was about my incessant wish of becoming a museum curator who got to wear hobble skirt and read Musset’s poem every day, and yours to me was how you regretted of never having your eyelashes trimmed when you were infant, because that way you might now have it prettier as mine. Honey crisps. Bon Iver. English daisies. Summer in Cappadocia. Half of me was captivated by your implausible yet spellbinding lecture about philosophical matters, the rest was enthralled enough as if I was being served a halcyon day of my typical list of blissful things.
You were driving to somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia, or somewhere between delusion and awake—I didn’t really notice. The radio played The Clientele’s and I laid next to your seat, whistling.
We could walk together
In the jade, and the coolness of the evening light
And watch the crowds serenely flow
Through carnivals of shop windows where elm trees sigh
The summer’s heat is fading
And the clown on the golden lawn holds out his hand
And out there in the fading day
The members of the strange parade play sarabandes
Like a silver ring thrown into the flood of my heart
With the moon high above the motorway
I have searched for all your fragrance in the silent dark
Is that okay?
So why don’t we stick together
With our eyes so full of evening and amphetamine
And watch the fools go rolling on
Through still fields as the darkness falls on England green