I’d often thought of him,
no one forgets their first kiss;
it leaves a permanent stain on the lips.
So when he rang it took only a moment
to recognise the mellow voice
and set up a reunion,
and a few more
for me to have second thoughts.
He wanted us to meet,
somewhere in the Summer of ’69
but I told him
I didn’t wear flowers in my hair now;
he said his was greying too.
We spent the day
weaving in and out of each others lives,
trying to repair scars, roughly patched wounds
from broken dreams and fractured hearts.
And we rediscovered some happy memories
that hadn’t slipped through holes in pockets.
When he left
I felt the colour drain from my cheeks
as unravelled stitches running between us
tugged at my wrist
but my lips didn’t pale as he waved goodbye to me.
