“Leave Caitlin. Go on, leave your wife and live with me.”
– The Edge of Love
I wish you would break the mirrors of her eyes
and win seven years’ bad luck with me.
Your side-long glances, heavy as anchors,
whisper how much you want to
across the silence of the room.
She only loves you at the bottom of the glass
and not in the spaces in between.
Her liquored lips have no space for loving,
only for lapping at the banks of her habit
and there is a maelstrom of melancholy
stranded in your eyes that I could swim,
if given the chance.
© Keighley Perkins