Scrumping apples
By Arthur Conan Doyle’s grave
Your 14-year-old self said
“Wear a pretty dress and
I might marry you.”
You have taken that dress off
Many times since
Kissed the Planck sand from
Monte Carlo beach on my skin
Fucked me with the Med swirling
On our naked, heated bodies
We witnessed the dissolution of selves
The Minus One Law of Thermodynamics
In that one endless moment
The warping of Space-Time around us
We were 14 once more
When you took my hand
And lay it on the sun-warmed Cote d’Azur
Connecting the outer world to my inner one
I believed in the impossibility of
Your audacious theory
Saw the stars of the Monegasque skies
Exploding like tidal fractals
In my kaleidoscopic mind
And I am back
In Winchester with you
In the endless looping of Space-Time
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