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R.S. (II) Cambridge

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I saw you walking leisurely, unimpressed, and unhurried, among the blue geraniums,while you were pondering with demanding urgency the consistency of the soil.

I sat on the warm earth and allowed my mind to wrap around your form.

The same way it wraps around long lines of black letters on my quadrille paper, on the blackboard.

I want to trace your form with my fingertips, as I sometimes do the white powder remnants of the chalk I smothered to bring birth to unfocused thoughts.

Old patterns that were scribbled long ago or yelled in anguish or excitement by many men far greater than me.

Find me a reason why I should stop serenading you at your very feet, your every step, breathing your sweet scent and paint your hair gold with the sunlight beams that seem to shine above your life.

If I could, I would, I would eagerly abandon the old paper stack and the heavy fabric of the cardigan that hugs my body, bearing it down, to be naked with you; foreign in a foreigners’ country. You would be my inside man, my translator, my very own rare specimen of my own endless sadness.

The rain is heavy at Caius; it sods my clothes and makes the tyres of my bicycle slip at the smooth pebbled stones. My books have their pages glued together now, the ink has spread and spread into dark blue spots. I stare at them for hours trying to assign images to the distorted blotches.


I love you in the rain. I loved you in the sun too.


I want to shout and scream and sing when I’m with you; I know you always liked me silent. Preferred to hear the music in your head instead of my vulgar muffled breaths. You never let me talk as much as I should like, and when I did you certainly never listened. I was too dull for you, the truth is this. But if you ever stopped to listen to the words that were stacked underneath my tongue, between my teeth you would hear me sing:


I love you I love you I love you I love you


To the most harmonious of your melodies.