When I said I wanted you deeper

it was not a lie. Not when 

we were tangled on the rug 

because the bed was too dense. 

That tiny room that looked larger

in the photo, four streets back 

from the beach because 

we couldn’t get anything

better that late in the season.

Not when you were attending 

to the tilt of my hips 

or the speed of my exhalations. 

The physicist in you bettering 

the psychologist in me. 

Not when you rang from Glasgow 

Sunday mornings, still lit 

from the club, talking horny 

while I sipped coffee, my fingers

flicking through ads for used cars.

Not when you tracked me down 

at the office, months after 

I’d taken down the photo

of you holding the surfboard

you couldn’t ride. I was careless

in my response, showed my joy 

at your voice, because I’d forgotten

what a visit from you meant

now I was with her. Do you know 

I saw colours, just like the Dalai Lama 

said? Purple, pulsing and animated, 

flooding my visual cortex 

with hallucination. I can’t close

my eyes with a woman.