ran out of road ...

She flew in as he waited. Olga landed. Lovers embraced and sinking into one. The journey was crazed.  She wanted him. He wanted her. Speeding down the motorway, taking a turn. Gliding down the hill and skidding and hitting the roundabout at speed and endlessly, endlessly crashing.

He exited the car alone and locked the doors. There was no blood.

They just ran out of road.

We were lovers

And we were summer-field
exploring
the skin-deep feel
of teenage cotton.

We were.

Caressing ...

We slumber partied
and deep down
rooted.

We held hands on Grey Street
and would not be parted

And striding through the snow
and braving the cold
of wind-whipped beaches
hand-in-hand.

Thawing to the red-glow
of a twin-barred
electric-fire
falling asleep to the spiral scratch world
unfolding
before us.

We were lovers.