Diarmuid

October days…

Fleets of ships in a Chocolate square

And your eyes

Far from cocoa.

Near a mustard building

Where a famed fiddle plays.

Picture me in a crowd

On a royal red perch

And you traveled six grand to find me.

Stuffing your fair pudgy fingers into empty pockets

Your apologies were so amusing

And you finally found a fiver.

Switch to conversation

Of which I couldn’t understand a word

save for Diarmuid—

I got that much.

Your accent so thick, your eyes so blue

You asked if you could follow me to the ladies room

and offered to hold my drink

while some guy shouted his love for me.

You seemed impressed that I didn’t know him

And I declined the offer, explaining later–why.

I read you rightly and completely

And accepted your invitation

To the Fillmore.

Walking in

A mountain of snow

A broken glass table

And a room full of women.

I’d lie to say I wasn’t intrigued.

Cut to 5am

You in a cab with a mug full of brandy

Following me home for that glass of red wine.

Conversation crept into dawn

And kissing you for ages felt like a dream

Under my net

and that green star lit sky

that was my room.

You.

You loved maroon walls and the Prince of Denmark.

You, who constructed your history to complement mine.

You, who waited twelve hours to call me.

Me, whose only love was you.