by Kerry Hammerton
No. Not Love. It wasn’t like that.
Maybe desire. Maybe lust.
Truthfully, you were just
a memory of someone else:
he caught me, tangled me
up, I was intoxicated, bedazzled.
I fell in love. It wasn’t just one thing,
like the expression on his face when
he saw me (bemused), or the hardness
and softness of his lips, or the colour of his
eyes (murky pond brown), the ease he had
with people, the seedy side of his lust,
it wasn’t just the arrogant slant of his walk,
it was more that that, it was the belief
I had made everything all right.
But with you, it was the memory of him,
a sense of something familiar,
a ghost in your smile,
a hint in the way that you walked
the ease you had with people.
It was maybe lust. Maybe desire.
And then yesterday you were standing
just being yourself, and I realised
you are nothing like him,
and that I could no longer pretend
that I want to be
within this, always longing.
I want you gone,
but most of all I want him back.