In the depth of night
we lie on a warm rooftop
our faces bathed in time and memory;
your hands slip over mine
like the stuff of clouds
we see slowly peeling away.
In the darkness of the tide,
warmth slipping in unseen
but crashing all the same
against an unnamed pier
deep, dark, immeasurable
like the hearts we gave away
slowly slipping over to fate.
Warm salty air
light flickers again the skin of night
are they stars? are they ships
traversing our map of dreams?
oh sweet delusion
oh dear oblivion
this rooftop is too near heaven
and your hand on mine
or mine on yours –
too close to perfection;
the stuff of earth
slowly peeling away
susan smith nash
17 february 2002