AT PADDINGTON STATION - Love Notes

LOVE NOTES

AT PADDINGTON STATION

There is no question between us, any more, of wanting:

I watch the way your lips move when you speak, your

accent  sharp as shattered glass.

There is a foreignness to you, compelling,

in the consonants clipped off briskly behind your teeth,

that single crooked incisor imperfect and beautiful.

I want to learn the Feel of it under my tongue.

There are no words for the press of you in my chest,

the swelling rise and Fall of this elemental Feeling

behind my diaphragm, over my heart.

Your hands, your hands, the strength of your fingers in mine,

The suggestion of Freckles over the ridge of your cheekbone.

All these things I catalogue, remember.

I want to learn YOU.

Sweetheart——l use endearments without thinking—

there is no edge to this, no clean division

of what we were, and what we are becoming.

The buttons on your Coat, your soft tossed hair,

grass in our pockets on a London afternoon.

The echoing cavern of Paddington Station,

the sunshine:

these fragments line the lining of my heart,

this fierce light that threatens when I would speak.

I would have kissed you on the platform's edge

Had I known then, as now, you would have let me.

--Louise Blaydon

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