I was willing contraband
smuggled over the walls
of her college dorm
that late night return, in suede shoes.
She’d bought us brandy in the Crown Bar
and with her gothic raven hair
hid my teenage looks
from the city’s inquisitorial gaze.
I held her waist
in the shadows of Amelia Street
and as we danced, over
to A Promise and The Killing Moon.
In the morning
I took the train to school
and read the NME
and blew smoke rings
against the fogged carriage windows.
Image - ‘That Thing in My Head’ - alcohol ink on Yupo paper.