Don't you say anything

In the strangest of places.
Like in the rain,
The storm,
And the wind at the window,
Tap, tap, tapping on the glass
And roof, and on the brim of my
dirty hat as I walk to work.
Your heartbeat was warm and dry,
And echoed
Around my chest and out of my mouth.
A dull thud,
Thud, thud, thudding out of my mouth
And somehow becoming words
As disconnected, meaningless and
Strange as
January. Timballo. Paris. Dot. Fortune. Hundred. Wine. Red wine. Too much wine. And Cemetery.
But I hear it in the rain now.
Not that I ever saw you in the rain,
Ever kissed you, or even heard your pale heartbeat in the rain.
Not that the rain or
The word cemetery
Signify anything,
Mean anything more or are anything less.
One time you told me about love and poetry,
And quoted Freud.
"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, or
A chair is just a chair,"
You said, your hair wet from the storm.

I once heard your heartbeat
In the strangest place.
It was in a lawnmower
Cutting grass
Outside my open window.
Revving, growling, shrieking on the grass
And road, and on and on, on the first day of my new job.
That day was warm and dry.
And you echoed
Around in the mouths of everyone I met.
I missed you then,
More than I had before.
Somehow I saw you reflected,
Echoed, connected even, by strange meanings
To everything I saw
That august February day. After Paris
I saw you everywhere I heard the words: red wine, and cemetery.
And so now I hear it in the cutting of grass
Despite never hearing your heart beating.
The closest I ever got was the drunken pulse in your leg.
Not that I remember
Well that night
Or anything.
I was fucked on five bottles of Apricot red wine and you on less.
Someone, that night, tried to tell me about love and poetry
And quoted you.
"Sometimes a fuck is just a fuck," or something like it.

And then, just like that.
They said you'd never mean more to me. 

I heard your heartbeat
Somewhere after you left.
It was in the chest
Of a girl
I fucked while drunk.
Fucked, fuck, fucking on the grass
And floor and on the bed when I was very late for work.
Her heartbeat was so red and wet,
And yours echoed
Around her chest and into my ear and mouth.
This quick beat, beat, beat, beating away all night,
And part of the day.
A day so disconnected, meaningless and
Strange as
Any day in March, April or May. In Paris,
Too, there was one girl. She drank my wine, all my wine,
At the Champs Elysée.
In Paris, in the rain
I heard your heartbeat in her smile.
Then imagined kissing her, and heard your shapeless heart beating in her laugh.
Not that the laugh or
Either girl
Meant anything
To me.
Or I to them really, I meant nothing to them.
One girl, she told me about love and all, and poetry
And quoted Rand,
Or someone, who said love is just when
You recognise yourself in another skin.
She said it with your voice too, and in your skin.

I heard an echo of your heartbeat
In the strangest place.
It was in that email
You sent
Saying we needed space
In spite. Despite a respite of six months
From each other since the day I saw you at my work, and you walked away.
The book you gave me was warm and loving.
Second hand.
Did I manage to get the word "no" out of my mouth?
A dull beat,
Tu... Tu... Tumbling out of my mouth.
Somehow it became a rejection
Of us. Disconnecting our bond,
Strange as it was.
I was in London that June
Earning my fortune and then drinking it away in red wine
And Drambuie.
But I'd hear in the traffic
An echo of your heartbeat in rhyme.
An absinthe mirror of a repetition of your pale heartbeat in the rain.
Not that the rain or
The word cemetery
Signify much,
Or their repetition means anything more or less.
I always wanted to tell you of love in my poetry.
I'd quote myself misquoting Eliot.
My arms full of you, your hair wet,
I couldn't speak,
I couldn't say that I knew nothing.

I feel your heartbeat
In a strange place.
In the uneven
And wild
Heart beating in my chest.
Beat, beat, beating in my skin
And veins, and constantly on my mind while I'm at work.
My heartbeat is inconsistent, unreliable.
So it is.
So it goes, against my skin, and down my neck,
A quick beat,
Beat, beat, then an apathetic pause, before more beating.
Somehow, without you, words come to nothing.
They disconnect, mean less and,
Strange as
It is, from July to December, become
Two hundred other things: a girl, a bottle, a pun, a bar, a gun, or a cemetery.
I hear you in the rain
And in these hastily written, uneven, amateur lines.
I wish I had never started them, these pallid heartbeats in strawberry ink.
Not that I even remember your name
Or the words you said
Or anything.
Do you mean anything any more? Or are you
Just an excuse to tell people about love in poetry?
I'll misquote myself.
Sometimes a storm is nothing. Rain is nothing.
A poem is nothing.
One kiss is nothing much if we said we'd never see each other afterwards.
That was the last night, in the bar, in the storm.