Spilt Time

Almost a year now. Of course we spilled over
somewhat: we always tended and intended to.
The lingering irises that day, in constant flux
of dilation; friction of young stubble on cheek;
brush of hands on Marylebone High Street, and then
the meeting and reassuring safe-clasp,
and rediscovery of lips.
Then phone calls, Manchester, the Cambridge Hotel…
but nothing seen through to conclusion, always
severed at that moment immediately before definition.
The metaphor of the parting-drift
at train Terminals: a few steps of dragging boot soles,
then the trailing off as gathered momentum breaks
the adhesive of sight line, and the gluey-remnants of touch
and fragrance are left to the elements and shower-gush
to pick away at, like nesting birds.
The fear of committing to
spilt time.