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.
drunk butterfly 