Familiar and Wrong

Our minds,
Twisted by too much alcohol, cigarettes
and talk of love,
and spending far too much time together,
Drinking, and talking and,
without words, screaming "I love you",
till late,
In the cold night, out back,
me sat in the leather sofa,
trying to stay relevant and interesting,
you on the table,
insouciant, melodramatic, and wise,
with just a hint, just the tiniest little hint,
of boredom or loneliness,
and drunk, much too drunk.
"O Timballo, O Shangralla,"
we said, and then we acted stupid
in the light of the moon.

Our lips were stained with red wine,
and curiously separate,
despite drinking from the same large glass.
Your pursed lips, dark and red,
much too red,
reluctantly laughing that small, ephemeral laugh,
and quoting Vonnegut, Lear, Herzog,
or Lebbeus Wood, or something,
"O Timballo, O Shangralla,"
you said, and then, hand in hand,
on the edge of the sand,
we danced by the light of the moon,
where forms disappear, appear
with no strength, pretending to not be dead,

"I am a beautiful and unique snowflake"
you told me once,
Are you? I replied, dumbfounded
and more than a little in love,

Take courage, I said back,
probably, or else something very similar,
Red wine is future I said to you once,
probably,
Or else I wrote it in that book we stole,
that book we sent you away with,
"O Timballo, O Shangralla,"
I said, and I danced by the light of the moon,
That was obscured by the south London sky,
And now you are on your way,
You said,
And now you are on your way.

This was all in the beer garden,
In that tiny beer garden, freezing and shivering,
and trying to stay warm till late,
where we smoked cigarettes and cigarettes,
far too many cigarettes,
and drank wine and beer and cider,
and all the rest,
and where we talked,
stupidly, endlessly, and too openly,
much too openly,
until late,
under the light of the moon in that bar in New Cross