Marianne,
now and then I run beside you.
We are still making strides in the immortal park.
You look at me with such desire.

And some days I am still angry.

Marianne,
now and then a band still plays,
pushed by your lips
to the corner of my eye.

And, some days, I am at the bar in Reykjavik
talking to the Turkish owner.
I drown my sorrow as I realise 
you are a fraud.

Other days I think I understand.

Marianne,
before you left for Stockholm,
you are still here
sitting nervously, waiting for the kiss.
There is a crackling and a flashing and a buzzing between,
for something holy is unfolding,
a sacred seal is being broken;
the Word has been inscribed upon our lips.

And other days
I wake up halfway sober in your sterile bed
to see you standing by the fridge with your muesli and milk
lit with no suggestion of the night before,
lit only with a harsh light on white floors.


and there is a burning in my eyes

and I feel emptied when I see your empty room
and I feel emptied when I see your modelling shots
and when I see that look on your face
and when I hear you quietly say
that I do not need to go

I am still angry.

some days I am also sorry.