One lunchtime I was already on the bench, having spent some time there reading over proofs in the morning sun with a bottle of cold beer. Nuria arrived, exuberant, flushed. She was wearing white jeans and trainers, a red cotton top. She moved my papers and sat astride me, straddling me, heels pulled tight into the small of my back. She kissed me deeply for what seemed like a very long time, then lifted her head, shaking the hair from her face. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and everything about her seemed to be encapsulated for a moment in those overflowing eyes: desire, incomprehension, and something akin to fear. She began to talk slowly, her voice uncertain.

‘When I’m at work I know that I am going to meet you and yet it’s only a few hours since I last saw you, touched your face. But I burn up inside with the thought of seeing you again, and by the time I step onto the street, walk down the Ramblas, I want to… I want to drown you. I want to everything you. I can’t be this good, I keep telling myself. Something really shit has to happen. And why do I think that? I hate myself for thinking that. I feel like a monster too, as though I wanted to consume you; no, to drown you, like I said, or better still to drown with you. Drowning you and drowning with you and drowned by you.’

The Colour of a Dog Running Away by Richard Gwyn


About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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