Strawberry Gin

You shield your eyes, your breath is compromised, strained, too fast; this is the time of Corona. Like thoughts in my mind, your breath is here but not, so we both keep chasing on and I wake every morning, in this crowded room with too many things that are not mine and I smell my impertinence in the air as I throw the sheets away from my pale, naked frame.

I want to walk with you, wordlessly through winding streets, through all the years of words not spoken, leaving us free of a past that has chained us down for too long.  

In my mind there has always been a desk near a window where I look out and see a moor explode in a cascade of colours. I watch you moving across the wild, while I put my pen to paper; your breath alive (unlike now) and we are far away from this city, far away from these days of strawberry gin and basic survival.

These are the days of Corona and I keep silent, but my heart still beats next to yours…